


A Land so Wild and Savage

by doctornerdington



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Victorian, Arctic Exploration, Colonialism, Epistolary, F/M, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Inuit Character, Inuit culture, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Northwest Passage, Period Typical Attitudes, Polyamory, Slow Burn, Suffrage, Survival, UST
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-22
Updated: 2017-01-19
Packaged: 2018-07-16 15:25:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 82,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7273582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doctornerdington/pseuds/doctornerdington
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In 1845, the HMS Erebus under the command of Captain James Sholto departed England on a voyage of discovery to find a Northwest Passage through the perilous arctic waters separating the Atlantic and Pacific oceans. It was never heard from again. Five years later, Captain John Watson of the Investigator sets sail to recover the Erebus and determine the fate of Sholto and his men. Naturalist Sherlock Holmes takes a berth on a scientific mission to catalogue arctic fauna. What they find could strike a killing blow at the very heart of the British Empire.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Preface (optional)

**Author's Note:**

> A Sherlock Sunday Summer Serial. Updates every Sunday throughout the summer.

My previous entries in the Sherlock Sunday Summer Serial collection have been adaptations of existing Victorian novels. This year, I’m trying something different. I’m crafting my own narrative, some of which is adapted from historical sources, and some of which is original. If all goes well, the historical and the original will blend together seamlessly. Historical accuracy is obviously not my goal, but the expeditions described here are based on the Franklin expedition and the many subsequent recovery expeditions that followed its disappearance in 1845.

There are many excellent sources on the Franklin expedition. I consulted (and sometimes adapted material from) the following:

 _“As affecting the fate of my absent husband”: Selected Letters of Lady Franklin Concerning the Search for the Lost Franklin Expedition, 1848-1860_. Ed. Erika Behrisch Elce. Montreal: McGill-Queen’s UP, 2009.

 _Encounters on the Passage: Inuit Meet the Explorers_. Dorothy Harley Eber. Toronto: U of T Press, 2008.

 _A Personal Narrative of the Discovery of the Northwest Passage [...]_. Alex Armstrong. London: Hurst and Blackett, 1857.

 _Unraveling the Franklin Mystery: Inuit Testimony_. David C. Woodman. Montreal: McGill-Queens UP, 1991.

 _A Song of the Sea: My Lady of Dreams: and Other Poems_. By Eric Mackay. 1895.

I also looked at a lot of Victorian newspaper accounts of the expeditions.

I’m not going to cite my sources throughout, but if you’re curious about particular chapters or passages, shoot me a message either here or [on Tumblr](http://doctornerdington.tumblr.com/) and I’ll check my notes for a specific citation for you.

The title of this fic (and, incidentally, its planned sequel, _One Warm Line_ ) is taken from Stan Rogers’ song “Northwest Passage,” which I have been listening to constantly for the past few months. The colonial language is deliberate, and is problematized within the fic itself.

Colonialism is an important theme here. This is an epistolary novel; it consists of letters and other “found” documents. Inuit culture was oral. History and information were passed from person to person, community to community, and generation to generation in the form of stories and songs, which I have included here as the Inuit epistolary voice. If you have feedback about my descriptions of Inuit culture and history, please do let me know. I’ve done significant research in primary sources and much of what I’ve included is quoted directly or adapted from oral histories recorded in the above sources.

Gerald Prince’s chapter “On a Postcolonial Narratology” in _A Companion to Narrative Theory_ was extremely helpful to me in thinking through the inherent colonialism of exploration literature. 

I use historically-appropriate terminology throughout. The Inuit refer to themselves as such, and the Europeans call them “Esquimeaux” – a term that is now known to be derogatory. The Inuit call the Europeans “qallunaat,” sometimes anglicized in Euorpean texts as “kabloona.”

Mary’s views on suffrage are modeled on Harriet Taylor’s article "Enfranchisement of Women," from the _Westminster and Foreign Quarterly Review_ for July 1851. The Sheffield Women’s Political Association's petition is a historical event.

I've set the rating at Teen & Up, as there are references to drug use and sexual situations. It might edge up to M in later chapters.

A HUGE thank-you to [redscudery](http://archiveofourown.org/users/redscudery/pseuds/redscudery), beta-extraordinaire and Sherlock Sunday Summer Serial mastermind! xoxoxoxo

Finally, here's a historical map of the Northwest Passage, in case you want to follow along as you read.

Thanks for reading. This is probably the most ambitious piece of fic writing I’ve ever attempted. If you feel inclined to cheer me on along the way, I’d be very appreciative. <3


	2. January – June 1850

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The HMS Erebus is declared lost; a rescue mission is planned.

_Sung by Imaruittuq at Igloolik during the darkness of the year of the second incursion; learned from Aippaq, who learned it from Ugalik, the first singer, five summers ago._

Aya, I think I have heard   
(He has heard from the wind)  
I think I have heard   
(He thinks he has heard)  
The sound of wood out in the wild.  
Aya, Aya, Aya.

I think I have heard  
(He thinks he has heard from the sea)  
I believe that I hear  
(He believes that he hears)  
The sound of wood from the sea.

Aya, Aya, Aya.  
Aya, Aya, Aya.

Here comes the wood from the sea

Aya, Aya, Aya.  
Aya, Aya, Aya.

 

* * * * *

 

 _The Evening News_  
6 January 1850  
P. 8

**SHOLTO EXPEDITION DECLARED LOST**

Well will our readers remember with what joy and excitement we bid “bon voyage” to the Sholto Expedition five long years ago, upon the expectation of their at last discovering a Northwest Passage through the Arctic waters of America and through to the Atlantic ocean. Captain James Sholto professed the utmost confidence in his mission, his crew, and his ship, the HMS _Erebus_. Reports of the _Erebus_ ’s trans-Atlantic crossing via the southern route and its resupply stop in Halifax harbor in the spring of 1846 gave interested observers cause for similar optimism. However, once the ship entered the icy Artic waters of Baffin Bay, it met with two hardy whaling vessels, and was then lost to civilization. No trace of it has been found, despite frequent sweeps of the bay by those same whalers. And so, it cannot be unexpected that the Admiralty has today made the following announcement: _With grave sorrow, we announce that the HMS_ Erebus _has been classified as LOST by the Admiralty. It is not possible, in our estimation, that the ship or any of the men aboard her could have survived so long in such extreme conditions without making any successful attempt to contact civilization. We pray for the souls of the brave men lost._  

The elusive and deadly Northwest Passage has now claimed the lives of more than 200 good men. The Admiralty, however, remains firm in its belief that the Passage can be discovered, and will be discovered by British explorers.

 

* * * * *

 

7 January 1850  
Sir Francis Baring  
First Lord of the Admiralty  
British Navy  
London Office

Esteemed Sir,

I write to express the Prime Minister’s extreme disappointment at the Admiralty’s recent declaration with regards to the Sholto Expedition. It is not merely Sholto’s seeming failure that irritates Lord Russell; there are matters at stake of grave consequence to the nation and, indeed, to the Empire. These need not concern you: suffice it to say that our interest in the recovery of the expedition is considerable.

You are well aware that I have always entertained the most sanguine views with regard to the discovery of ships; and that notwithstanding five years have elapsed since tidings were received, yet I see no reason to despair. The grounds on which it appears to me reasonable that Sholto and his men on the _Erebus_ should not be considered dead, but living, are these:

 _First_. Because no evidence has been discovered of any catastrophe having befallen them. Neither the bodies of men, nor parts of ships, timbers, spars, stores of any description have been found, either afloat in the currents, or washed up upon the shores. The captains of the whaling ships, men the most experienced in these matters, concur in asserting that it is next to impossible that a ship could be crushed and destroyed without any of their crews escaping, and without some traces of the disaster being found.

 _Secondly_. It is widely assumed that Sholto would have sought the passage north on Parry’s Sound and through Banks Straight into a vast sea of impenetrable floe ice in which his discovery would be a hopeless mission. My cartographical analyses suggest otherwise. It requires but a transient glance at the Polar chart, as it appears with the very latest geographical acquisitions, to see that between Baring Island and Prince Albert Land, there lies a strait – beyond which only blank space is laid down. That quarter of the Arctic Sea, where it is most probable that the missing parties would be found living, or their fate ascertained, has never yet been mapped. What discoveries Sholto may have made in this space he has not returned to tell: no one has yet followed him there.

 _Thirdly_. The most experienced of Arctic explorers has consolingly assured us, that life may be maintained in the farthest Arctic lands under circumstances that are at first sight seemingly the most hopeless; nature accommodates herself, and the hardships and sufferings of the first years would be mitigated afterwards.  I think we may agree that where the sturdy Esquimeaux can live, there also can Englishmen.

 _Fourthly_. At the utmost limits of northern travel attained by man, hordes of animals of various kinds (including ruminating animals), have been observed travelling still further north. Birds, of which almost incredible numbers are occasionally seen, take their flight northward, and the highest waters yet attained are frequented by the whale, the walrus, and the seal, which furnish not only food, but fuel and clothing. My own brother is an exceptional amateur naturalist, and he assures me that such is the case.

Please believe me to be most sincere when I say that Sholto’s rescue is a question of the utmost importance for our nation.

Speaking now on my own behalf: I wish to mount a quiet rescue expedition to prove the accuracy of my little theory and to put the Prime Minister’s mind to rest on the matter. This expedition will be most discreet. We do not wish to draw public attention to the attempt, and we will not run it through Admiralty channels. I will personally finance the expedition in its entirety, and wish only for advice from you on the specifications and logistics of such an undertaking.

Please join me at my club for dinner this evening. We can discuss the matter more fully in person.

I remain, Sir, your loyal servant.

Mycroft Holmes  
Diogenes Club  
London, West 1

 

* * * * * 

 

10 January 1850  
Mycroft Holmes  
Care of Diogenes Club  
London, West 1

Sir –

Good Lord, Mycroft, your stubbornness does you no favours. Do you suppose that you – a man with no naval experience and nothing but money and a modicum of wit behind you – _you_ can succeed where the best of the British navy has failed? Well. I suppose it will be entertaining to watch you try.

If I cannot persuade you to involve the Admiralty in any official capacity, I will at least offer this advice: you must immediately procure a vessel for modification and outfitting. Travel in Arctic regions is both arduous and unpredictable. Your ship must certainly be underway by June to take best advantage of weather and ice conditions in the passage.

I know of a sweet little vessel currently under construction by Scotts of Greenock on the Firth of Clyde and running 322 tonnes. She would suit you admirably, but the expense will not be small.

If you want her, you’d best act quickly; between us, we are looking at her ourselves.

Francis

PS. She’s called the _Investigator_.

 

* * * * *

 

BILL OF SALE

DATE: 11 January 1850  
Mycroft Holmes of LONDON  
Agrees to the purchase of the ship _Investigator_  
Provided it is seaworthy and of good quality  
From William M. Rice, Master Shipwright  
At the price of £7,803  
With the understanding that construction shall be complete by 1 May at the latest.

 

* * * * *

 

 _TELEGRAPHIC MESSAGE: Mycroft Holmes to Sherlock Holmes (1 February 1850)  
_ FOR GODS SAKE MASTER YOURSELF STOP REPORTS ALARMING STOP WILL CALL AT MONTAGUE STREET 3:00 STOP

 

 _TELEGRAPHIC MESSAGE: Sherlock Holmes to Mycroft Holmes (1 February 1850)  
_ WILL BE OUT STOP

 

 _TELEGRAPHIC MESSAGE: Mycroft Holmes to Sherlock Holmes (25 February 1850)  
_ SHERLOCK PLEASE STOP THIS CANNOT CONTINUE STOP IT WILL BE FINISHED YOUR WAY OR MINE

 

* * * * *

 

27 April 1850

Mycroft Holmes  
Diogenes Club  
London West 1

Dear Sir,

Herewith your final progress report on the _Investigator_ , ordered prepared for Arctic service on 4 February of this year. Ship extensively strengthened with timber (teak, English oak, Canadian elm) and 5⁄16 inch steel plating. Ten pairs of iron diagonal riders are set in the hold, with ten pairs of diagonal plates on the sides of the vessel between decks. To stand under snow and ice loads, the upper decks are doubled with 3-inch fir planking. Preston's Patent Ventilating Illuminators were installed to improve light and ventilation. Sylvester's Warming Apparatus is capable of warming the entire ship, installed with good results.

All work is now complete, and a list of expenses enclosed. We trust this is to your satisfaction.

R.&H. Green  
Blackwall Yard  
London Docks

 

* * * * *

 

29 April 1850

Mr. Mycroft Holmes  
Owner, _The Investigator_  
London Docks

Dear Sir,

I hope you will forgive my impudence in writing. I am an acquaintance of Rob Green in the Blackwall Yard, and have been following his work on your ship with interest. I am no expert, but the modifications made to the _Investigator_ are surely in preparation for Arctic service, are they not? And yet, I have heard of no planned expeditions. As it happens, I am sailor in want of a ship, and an Arctic voyage would suit me well.

When you begin manning and outfitting, please remember my name.

Sincerely,

John Watson  
23 Little Eastcheap Street  
London

 

* * * * *

 

30 April, 1850  
Memorandum  
CONFIDENTIAL

Request full intelligence report on a Mr. John Watson, sailor, of 23 Eastcheap Street, London.

Expedited completion required. Particular attention to career at sea and deportment of character.

M. Holmes

 

* * * * *

 

3 May 1850  
CONFIDENTIAL INTELLIGENCE REPORT  
Documentation enclosed

SUMMARY:  
**Name** : Mr. John Hamish Watson  
**Aliases** : None known  
**Address** : 23 Little Eastcheap Street  
**Formerly** : Served _HMS Plover_ ; _HMS Prince Albert_ ; _HMS Camperdown_.  
**Wife** : Mary Watson (nee Morstan), 34, prominent suffragette of militant persuasion. Born Winchester. Little known of antecedents.  
**Children** : None living. One stillbirth (July 1847).  
**Age** : 35  
**Associates** : Well-liked by neighbours and acquaintances at the docks &c. few or no close friends.  
**Education** : London Charity School to the age of 16. Unusually well-read.  
**Parents** : Mr. and Mrs. John Watson Sr. of London; both deceased in the last 5 years. He from alcoholic collapse, she from TB. One sister living now immorally in France; contact with JW sporadic.  
**Occupation** : Career sailor in the Royal Navy, rose to rank of Acting Lieutenant under previous commander Captain James Sholto. Exemplary record. Served in the Baltic campaign (wounded, left shoulder) and more recently the West Indies aboard the _HMS Camperdown_. Formally cited for bravery on three occasions, the last of which entailed the rescue of Sholto from his burning great cabin during a ship fire when docked in Guadeloupe. Sholto suffered severe burns but survived; four shipmates did not. Returned to England in poor spirits. Did not return to sea when Sholto accepted command of the _Erebus_. Lives off of a small inheritance and a partial Navy pension. Frequents the docks. Walks excessively, suffers from a pronounced limp although no leg injury is recorded. Has not been at sea for five years.  
**Venal Indiscretions** : The Watsons’ marriage bed is sacred to neither party, this though they live most harmoniously together and are exceptionally discreet. Mrs. Watson is discriminating in her tastes and has infrequent liaisons when travelling; her husband’s tastes run to less discrimination and greater frequency. He enjoys the variety of the docks.  
**Criminal activities** : Occasional minor street altercations, generally provoked. Invariably the victor. Nothing of any greater import.  
**Character** : Self-contained. Highly competent. Unquestionably brave and loyal to a fault, but does not trust easily. Temper runs hot and can be dangerous.  
**Recommendation** : Recruitment. Watson seeks Sholto, that much is certain. His motives for doing so are unclear, but his drive is assured: no one will persist as he will.

 

* * * * *

 

5 May 1850

Mycroft Holmes  
Diogenes Club  
London West 1

Dear Mr. Holmes,

You cannot imagine with what surprise I received your letter. Sir, you cannot be in earnest. I am an Acting Lieutenant, and have never held command. Your terms are very generous, and a one-year Arctic voyage is acceptable. However, I wish to discuss this matter with you in person, sir, for you must understand that this has all been conducted in a most unusual manner, and the absence of the Royal Navy’s hand in this expedition is passing strange. Can we meet? I am available at your leisure.  

Sincerely,

Mr. John Watson  
23 Little Eastcheap Street  
London

 

* * * * *

 

 _TELEGRAPHIC MESSAGE: Mycroft Holmes to John Watson (5 May 1850)  
_ JOIN ME AT THE DIOGENES CLUB TOMORROW AFTERNOON AND ALL SHALL BE MADE CLEAR STOP I WILL SEND MY COACH TO COLLECT YOU AT 3:00 STOP

 

* * * * *

 

9 May 1850  
Mr. John Watson  
23 Little Eastcheap Street  
London

Husband –

I will not mince words: your letter alarms me. I regret that I am not in London to discuss this matter in person, but it was not possible to avoid the Sheffield assembly.

We have never been conventional in the observance of our marriage vows, and I will not stoop to ugly hypocrisy to argue my case. We agreed when we married that we should both reserve perfect freedom and independence even within the embrace of the other. Thus far, you have my blessing. And yet, John, think what you leave behind – of what you throw over! And to do it _for him_! Whatever you may tell yourself, whatever you may pretend, you must know that you do it for him. You will not wish to hear this, but please remember: the coward ran from you, husband. He ran from what you offered. This is madness. This is suicide. I beg you to think of your health. And perhaps too, think of the situation in which you leave me. I do not wish to be alone in this world.

I know nothing of this Mycroft Holmes. I have never even heard his name – and that, in itself, is further cause for alarm. Who is he? What does he know of you, to offer you command? I have grave misgivings as to his motives, as should you.

I remain ever,

Your loving

Mary  
Bath Hotel  
66 Victoria Street  
Sheffield, England

 

* * * * *

 

11 May 1850

Mycroft Holmes  
Diogenes Club  
London West 1

Dear Sir,

I agree, of course, that time is of the essence if we are to make the most of the brief Arctic sailing season. The usual southern crossing is far safer given the prevailing westerlies, but if we are to make the attempt this year (which is, we agree, of vital importance), sailing round the Azores will cost us too much time. I suggest the northern route. We’ll have to beat into the wind pretty much the whole way, as well as into the waves, passing to the west of the British Isles, heading for a position approximately 55degN lat / 30degW long, then heading WSW for the American coast. It is unusual, but it has been done; I have spoken to men who have done it and I do not fear the risk.

I have begun selecting my crew, as agreed. The perilous nature of the service and the secrecy which attends it, to say nothing of its philanthropic character, has made recruitment somewhat difficult. It is well that the ship is small, and we do not require a large complement of men. As you shall see, I have forgone a large contingent of officers in favour of a small crew of efficient and able men. A Mr. Gregory Lestrade has agreed to serve as my first mate. I have been intermittently acquainted with him for several years, as his service has allowed, and know him to be a steady, competent, and highly experienced sailor in Arctic waters: it is my belief that his experience will counterbalance my own lack in that area. Of equal importance, he has managed acquire extensive knowledge of several of the dialects spoken by the Esquimeaux people native to the Arctic, which will be of invaluable assistance.

Mr. Lestrade has recruited a number of men to serve under us: all men he knows and has served with before. A preliminary roster is enclosed. I have engaged Michael Stamford to serve as ship’s surgeon; although he’s not seen active service for almost a decade, his disposition is of a cheerful and friendly nature such will greatly benefit the crew. Of the 30 or so berths aboard, almost all have now been filled.

I trust all meets with your approval.

John Watson  
23 Little Eastcheap Street  
London

 

* * * * *

 

**Enclosure: Preliminary Roster for the June Sailing of the _Investigator_**

Captain: John Watson  
First mate: Gregory Lestrade (Lieutenant)  
Mate: Robert Wynniatt  
Ditto: Hubert Sainsbury  
Ditto: William Newton  
Second Mate: Stephen Court  
Surgeon: Michael Stamford  
Ice-Master: John Wilcox  
Ice-Mate: Joseph Pine  
Boatswain: George Kennedy  
Clerk in Charge: Philip Anderson  
Quartermaster: Sully Donovan  
Boatswain’s Mate: Henry May  
Gunner’s Mate: John Kerr  
Carpenter: Henry Sugden  
Captain of the Hold: James William  
Cook: John Caulder  
Gunner: Peter Thompson  
Caulker: Robert Tiffeny  
Yeoman: James Evans  
Yeoman: Henry Stone  
Captain’s Coxswain: Cornelius Hulott  
Sailmaker: George Milner  
Able Seaman: Richard Ross  
Ditto: James Lyons  
Ditto: Yet to be determined  
Seaman: Yet to be determined  
Seaman: Yet to be determined  
Boy: Archie Greaves  


* * * * *

 

11 May 1850

Mrs. M. Watson  
Virginian Hotel  
Anita Street  
Sheffield, England

My darling –

Do not be angry. Or rather, be as angry as you wish, but do not blame me, for there is no other way forward for me. I have accepted the command of the _Investigator_.

You are mistaken when you ascribe my motives to anything but the concern of a lieutenant for the best commander he has ever known. I must do right by him, or try to.

I shall never leave you alone in this world, Mary. You must never fear that. The voyage is dangerous, I grant, but it is far from suicide. Our patron Mr. Holmes is certainly somewhat secretive in his dealings, but once we are at sea his strange influence will recede with the English shoreline.

I miss you and eagerly await your return. I will be there to meet your train, the 11:42 as I recall.

Yours ever,

John

 

* * * * *

 

 _TELEGRAPHIC MESSAGE: Mycroft Holmes to Sherlock Holmes (12 May 1850)  
_ HAVE PROCURED A BERTH ON AN OUTGOING VESSEL STOP YOU WILL REPORT FOR SERVICE AS SHIP NATURALIST STOP 12 MONTHS OF ARCTIC SERVICE STOP ITS THAT OR THE ASYLUM AGAIN STOP

 

 _TELEGRAPHIC MESSAGE: Sherlock Holmes to Mycroft Holmes (12 May 1850)  
_ I CHOOSE THE ASYLUM STOP

 

 _TELEGRAPHIC MESSAGE: Mycroft Holmes to Sherlock Holmes (12 May 1850)  
_ BE REASONABLE STOP 12 MONTHS TO REGAIN YOUR HEALTH AND CATALOGUE SAMPLES ARCTIC FAUNA AND FLORA STOP YOU WERE A SUPERB NATURALIST ONCE STOP THE CAPTAIN IS RATHER INTERESTING STOP I HAVE NO WISH TO IMPRISON YOU STOP

 

 _TELEGRAPHIC MESSAGE: Sherlock Holmes to Mycroft Holmes (12 May 1850)  
_ I CHOOSE THE ASYLUM STOP

_TELEGRAPHIC MESSAGE: Mycroft Holmes to Sherlock Holmes (12 May 1850)  
_ SO BE IT STOP

 

* * * * *

 

13 May 1850

Miss Molly Hooper  
54 Oxford Street  
London

My dearest Molly,

How lovely it was to see you this afternoon, and to spend even a scant half hour in your company in Hyde Park. The sight of your dear face, of your little lips curled in a smile, of the rose blooming on your soft cheek, is enough to give a fellow life. I know how difficult it is for you to escape from _his_ watchful eye, and I am mindful of the risk you run. I would not presume to ask it of you were I not quite so desperately in love with you.

And yet, I cannot blame him. His paternal love protects that which I so love myself, and I will ever thank him for the care with which he guards my precious Molly, though he never deign to look on me again.

I am a poor fellow, Molly, and I know it. I am as unworthy as your father believes me to be. I thank God that I have somehow won your heart, and I trust in His wisdom that in time, your father will see his way to blessing our union.

Twelve months, my love. Twelve months of separation, of heartache, of loneliness – and then! You shall be mine, and no one – not your father, not anyone! – will be able to separate us ever again. We shall have our own little cottage, then, Molly, and I will accept only the briefest of commissions, for I shall never wish to be away from your side. You shall have your own household, and your books, and a garden, and fat babies to adore, and I shall have you.

Wait for me. Be faithful. I will come.

Ever yours,

Gregory

 

* * * * *

 

14 May 1850

PROVISIONING ORDER  
Messrs. Gamble

On request of M. Holmes, full provisioning of _Investigator:_ thirty-one men for a twelvemonth’s journey. Provisions to include adequate stocks of salt pork and beef, flour, sugar, lime, cheese, biscuit, butter, beer, pease, oatmeal, spirits, &tc to secure full rations for the duration, plus another month for safety’s sake. Further, full sets of clothing for arctic conditions. Mr. Holmes requests that no expense be spared.  
Expected departure: 8 June. Timeliness is of the utmost importance.

 

* * * * *

 

 _TELEGRAPHIC MESSAGE: Mycroft Holmes to Sherlock Holmes (27 May 1850)  
_ THANK YOU FOR SEEING ME STOP INTERVIEW MOST SATISFACTORY STOP SHIP INVESTIGATOR STOP CAPTAIN J WATSON STOP REPORT 7 JUNE BY MIDNIGHT STOP

 

 _TELEGRAPHIC MESSAGE: Mycroft Holmes to Sherlock Holmes (27 May 1850)  
_ GODSPEED SHERLOCK STOP

 

* * * * *

27 May, 1859

John Watson  
23 Little Eastcheap Street  
London

Captain Watson,

I am reluctant, always, to overstep your authority as captain of the _Investigator_. Your proposed roster and the preparations you have undertaken on my behalf are, in my admittedly uninformed opinion, well judged.

Perhaps I might request a small favour. My brother, a Mr. Sherlock Holmes, happens to be an exceptional amateur naturalist with a passionate interest in the flora and fauna of the Arctic regions. Felicitously, I see that you have not yet filled all your berths. Mr. Holmes will report aboard 7 June by midnight. He eats but little, and although he is of a melancholic and somewhat mercurial disposition, if you leave him to himself he will cause you little trouble.

I know I need not remind you of the heavy weight of responsibility that accompanies the privilege of command. Like all of your crew, the wellbeing of my brother is now in your hands. I fully trust you will acquit yourself accordingly.

Thanking you in advance,

Mycroft Holmes  
Diogenes Club  
London

 

* * * * *

28 May, 1850

Mycroft Holmes  
Diogenes Club  
London

Dear Sir,

Certainly, Mr. Sherlock Holmes is welcome to join the _Investigator_. I look forward to making his acquaintance. No doubt you will find it a comfort to have a family connexion aboard ship, to act as your agent and protect your interests.

Sincerely,

John Watson

 

* * * * *

 

 _TELEGRAPHIC MESSAGE: Mycroft Holmes to John Watson (29 May 1850)  
_ IN NO INSTANCE SHOULD MR SHERLOCK HOLMES BE CONSIDERED MY AGENT ABOARD SHIP STOP HE JOINS YOU IN HIS CAPACITY AS NATURLIST ONLY STOP YOUR ORDERS COME FROM ME STOP FIND SHOLTO EXPEDITION STOP

 

* * * * *

 

_Ship’s Log  
8 June 1850_

_Being the official record of the first sailing of the ship_ Investigator _, under command of John Watson, Captain. Log kept by Captain Watson (and First Mate Gregory Lestrade in the captain’s absence)._

Under sail at 05:00 as scheduled for the first voyage of the _Investigator_. Stored, provisioned, and fully equipped for twelve months service in the Arctic regions. 31 good men aboard. Weighed anchor in Plymouth Sound, and with a fair, fresh breeze from the East South East, proceeded to sea, steering a course West by South. All well.

 

* * * * *

 

 _Ship’s Naturalist’s Log_  
8 June 1850  
11:43

_Being the record book of Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Ship's Naturalist, Investigator._

Confined to a godforsaken floating coffin with disgusting slugs for companions – for a year. Most excellent, brother. I shall die of tedium instead of cocaine, well done: that is, indeed, a more respectable death.

Oh look! A _larus canus_. And there! _Mus musculus_! Fascinating. I must carefully document each sighting. What an excellent naturalist am I! And how extraordinary the natural world; how very worth a year of one’s life.

 

* * * * *

 

 _Captain’s Log_  
8 June 1850  
21:15

 _Being the personal and private observations and thoughts of John Watson, Captain,_ Investigator _._

Strange to write this log as captain. Strange to _be_ captain, come to that. I was never –.

Well underway now. The departure proceeded entirely smoothly. Crew seems to be settling in, although the unusual aspects of the mission have led to some first-day nerves. Most seem glad to be back at sea and happy in their duties. Time will tell. Lestrade works endlessly and earns the men’s respect for it. His easy confidence puts any lingering trepidation the men may feel to rest.

The blasted naturalist crawled aboard at 04:30 looking like death itself was dragging him and disappeared below into his quarters. I’ve not seen him since. I have misgivings as to his fitness for duty, among other things, but Mr. Holmes, after all, has final authority.

I never thought to be at sea again. It is some impossible mixture of delightful and strange and nightmarish. No one aboard knows of my personal connexion to our mission, but the crew shares my dedication to the cause. There appears amongst all a determination that whatever human efforts can achieve to promote our success, will not be wanting. Sailors do not abandon our own. God grant that we find him alive and well, and also his crew.

 

* * * * *

 

_Told by Ugalik, who became a powerful angakkuq in the years following the first incursion:_

There was great discord among the Inuit when the creatures came out of the sea in their wooden boats. Some said they were agloolik rising up from under the ice in numbers never before seen to help our hunters in the long night, and therefore to be trusted. Others said they were qalupalik who had learned to disguise their green skin and wild hair, come to steal the children away. We watched them as they walked about with lumps of wood in their mouths, breathing smoke: they spoke in a tongue that nobody understood. All of us were afraid of what their coming meant to us.

* * * * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next week: a difficult Atlantic crossing.


	3. June – August 1850

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Investigator faces a difficult Atlantic crossing.

_Ship’s Log,_ Investigator _  
27 June 1850_

All well. Weather continues fair and winds brisk. She’s a snug little ship, and performs well; Holmes’s men did a fine job with the construction and equipage. We make good progress. Crew in fine spirits. 

 

* * * * *

 

_Captain’s Log,_ Investigator _  
29 June 1850, 03:30_

Cannot sleep. Always, there is something twisting inside me – and the dreams.

 

* * * * *

 

_Captain’s Log,_ Investigator _  
30 June 1850; 01:00_

Five years on land have made me soft; I am sore and miserable. Who am I, to command these men? I’m barely a sailor at all anymore.

 

* * * * *

 

_Ship’s Log,_ Investigator _  
2 July 1850_

All well. Crew issued double measure of spirits tonight at Lestrade’s request. He has become quite a favourite with the men; this is a great relief to me. Weather continues fair; winds lightening. The northern route has thus far been kind. On track to make a record quick crossing.

 

* * * * *

_Naturalist’s Log,_ Investigator _  
2 July 1850_

Oh, God. I do not know if I can –. It is too much. Everything is too much I cannot think I

I need --.

 

* * * * *

 

_Ship’s Surgeon’s Log,_ Investigator _  
2 July 1850_

General health of crew excellent. Four admissions to the sick list since departure (appended); afflictions of no greater importance than those generally resulting from sailors’ indiscretions on shore.

Though I’ve not been to sea for a number of years, I’ve quickly remembered how I relish it. Bracing, when one has grown soft and fat in London. Little call for medical services as of yet; I pass the days reading up on arctic scurvy, bush fever, dysentery, a variety of dermatoses, tulareimia. Let us hope this knowledge will not be needed.

Personal aside: although my acquaintance with S Holmes is slight and confined only to the scientific circles in which we ran in London, I am not easy in my mind about his health. In the few years I have known him, I have never seen him look as he does now: so pale, thin, and trembling. He keeps much to himself, and looks unwell when he does appear above deck – rather less frequently than I would advise. I have heard him call out in the night, quite incoherently. As far as I can ascertain, he makes no effort to fulfill his duties or to contribute to the work of the ship. I must speak to the captain, although I hesitate. He, too, suffers from some unnamed condition that keeps him up nights, pacing the decks. I fear this ship sails under a cloud and the men begin to feel it.

 

* * * * *

_Ship’s Log  
4 July 1850, 23:00 _

The air hangs heavy; the heat is oppressive even at this late hour. Little wind. Crew restless. A storm approaches: a first test.

 

* * * * *

 

_Captain’s Log  
4 July 1850, 23:30_

Have just had the strangest encounter.

Not an hour ago, I lay sweltering in my bunk trying to sleep. Failing to sleep. A terrible sound came to my ears: a sort of low, broken moan drifting lowly through the dividing wall of my cabin. At first, I was not certain I had not fallen into a nightmare, so like was it to the way the dreams always begin. But the inevitable flames did not appear. I was not asleep. The sound continued without cease for several long minutes.

Now, my cabin is located beside that of the ostensible naturalist, Lestrade having given it over in favour of a smaller bunk nearer the crew. I hesitated to intrude upon Mr. Holmes, for I’ve barely said a word to the man in my life. There is little enough privacy aboard ship, it is usually kinder to ignore the strange habits of our fellow creatures.

The pitiful sound went on and on. It was not loud, but somehow that made it more terrible, that it was mine alone to witness. Finally, I could bear it no longer. I rose and dressed, and knocked on Holmes’s door.

Silence met my rap, but I persisted. “Holmes,” I asked. “Are you well? Shall I send for Stamford?”

Silence. I hesitated. I did not wish to shame the man, but nor did I wish him to suffer.

“Come for a turn on deck. These cabins are stifling; the air will do us both good.”

More silence.

I shrugged. Some men are solitary. I am so myself.

I turned to return to my cabin, resolving to call for Stamford in the morning. As I did, something crashed against the inside of Holmes’s door, the sound of shattering glass and muttered curses followed.

I cried out in surprise and wrenched open the door.

The cabin was dark and smelled of the brandy that dripped from every surface. Glass crunched underfoot.

“Captain Watson,” a low voice said from the darkness – and how that voice shook. “Apologies – for disturbing you. All is well. Please go.”

I found it prudent to listen to the voice, and not the words; the voice did not wish for me to go.

“All is not well,” I answered firmly into the darkness. “Come. We’ll take a turn on deck and I’ll call the boy to mop up this mess.”

There was silence from within.

I did not wish to order him, but how to get the man out? And then I had a thought: “The storm birds are out in numbers tonight,” said I. “Perhaps you’d care to see them?”

A thin, pale face appeared from the darkness. Sweat covered his brow, and his dark hair hung down in greasy ringlets. He shook so hard his teeth rattled in his head. I was shocked at the state of him, but then understanding crashed upon me: I had seen this affliction before. His eyes were unfocused and he swallowed convulsively. “I was a naturalist once,” he said uncertainly.

“Come now,” I said, taking his arm as if he were himself a battered storm bird that might startle away in an instant. “Up we go. The air will do us both good.”

He allowed me to guide him to the ladder and up the hatch to the main deck. Again I took his arm and we walked the deck for half an hour or more in silence. I believe the air _did_ do us both good. We stopped at last, and leaned against the rail, looking out into the night.

“I’m not drunk, if that’s what you’re thinking,” he said to me then. “I’m not at all well, but I will be soon.”

I nodded. “You will. Two more days, maybe three. The worst of it will pass.”

His head whipped around and he gaped at me. It was as if he had surfaced from a dream, and his eyes were suddenly bright and sharp and shocked.

“You’re not the first cocainist to come over ill after leaving port.” I lay my hand on his trembling shoulder. “It really will pass. Not the worst way to make a clean break, all said.”

He shrugged and turned away once more. We stood a little longer looking out into the black night. The air began to cool a little and we were refreshed.  

“It was Mr. Mycroft Holmes’s idea, I suppose, for you to come aboard?” I asked after a time, for I was curious about my strange employer.

His face darkened, and he turned on me savagely, almost snarling in sudden rage. “Whatever he is to _you_ , Mr. Mycroft Holmes is nothing to me -- less than nothing. You’d do well to remember it.”

He shook off my arm and stormed away. He was below deck and holed up again in his cabin before I had recovered from my absolute surprise.

So. Mr. Holmes has saddled me with his cocaine-addicted brother, and I am drawn into some strange family intrigue.

 

* * * * *

 

_Naturalist’s Log  
5 July 1850, 02:00_

Briefly on deck. Humiliating.

 

* * * * *

 

_Ship’s Log  
5 July 1850, noon_

At 04:00, with a great crack of thunder, the storm broke. For hours, the gale continued to increase in force, and nothing was wanting to heighten the wildness of the tempest. From the onset of the gale we were utterly unable to contend against it: it being directly foul for us, we continue to make much leeway drifting to the south west.

 

* * * * *

 

_Naturalist’s Log  
7 July 1850_

The noise these birds make is fit to wake the dead. It is by no means certain that I will survive this.

 

* * * * *

 

_Ship’s Log  
11 July 1850, noon_

No mitigation in the force of the storms, which rage furiously, and with terrific squalls, rain, hail, thunder and lightning at intervals. Continue to drift at the rate of from fifty to sixty miles a day to the south west.

 

* * * * *

 

_Captain’s log  
11 July, 13:00_

If ever I hoped to sleep at sea, these storms have put an end to it. The men labour mightily but there is no way to fight it. When the storm is finished with us we will be released, and until then we must simply endure.

Sometimes when I am very tired, I forget myself. I turn my head, expecting orders. But he is not here, and _I_ am to give the orders. It is strange – terrible and strange. For so many years, his word commanded my actions, his character commanded my loyalty, and his wisdom, my trust. I am as battered and adrift as our own ship without him.

Holmes has been up on deck several times. He is miserable and will not speak, but I know he makes a mighty effort. I met his brother only once in person, but even on that limited basis I can see a curious similarity that suddenly diverges, like a forked tree branch. What is the cause of their enmity, I wonder?

 

* * * * *

 

_Ship’s Log  
13 July 1850, noon_

At 08:00 this morning when in lat. 45°. 34' S., long. 37°. 28' W., it suddenly fell calm. The lull of the tempest was of short duration, and it appeared to have acquired fresh power during this temporary cessation; for the next hour it again blew with its accustomed violence. We sustained considerable damage on our upper deck on the night of the 12th; the head and waist hammock netting having been carried away with some other minor mischances.

 

* * * * *

 

_Naturalist’s Log  
13 July 1850, 16:00_

Wretched, wretched, wretched. Cannot stay below deck for all the churning and tossing about, cannot walk on deck without being immediately drenched in the downpours. One feels as if one has never been dry, never warm, never still. A year of this – God! Perhaps the asylum would have been preferable. Damn Mycroft for persuading me, and damn me for allowing it. Perhaps I am dead already, and this is all I can expect. I suppose it is no worse than I deserve.

 

* * * * *

 

_Surgeon’s Log  
13 July 1850_

The admissions to the sick list have undergone a considerable increase from the almost constant exposure of the men on deck to the fury of the elements. Working the ship frequently requires the whole strength of the ship's company, and the Sick Bay shares equally with other parts of the vessel, in being wet, leaky, and otherwise uncomfortable. Conditions are not likely to improve until the advent of more favourable weather. I do what I can.

 

* * * * *

 

_Captain’s Log  
13 July 1850_

The duration and power of this storm is quite unprecedented even to the most seasoned men among us. In the constant heaving of the waves, it is difficult to form an idea of the general state of the ship. The hatches are, for the most part, battened down, dead-lights fitted on, excluding the light from above— ventilation almost arrested, and the decks entirely saturated, the sea-water at times being several inches deep on the lower deck, from the heavy seas which incessantly break over us. Cascades of salt water occasionally pour through the several cracks and crevices in the hatchways, while the piteous moaning and creaking of the ship's timbers, weeping from every pore. The atmosphere between decks is loaded with moisture and noxious effluvia emanating from so many persons being congregated in a confined space. It adds largely to our misery.

The men begin to fear – as indeed do I – that the continuance of the tempestuous weather might so far delay us in our voyage as to prevent our reaching the ice in time for active operations this season.

 

* * * * *

 

_Ship’s Log  
14 July 1850_

Weather has finally abated. Once more under the influence of the long looked for Trade wind, and making all haste to correct our course. Crew fully engaged in speeding the repairs as well as our resources enable us to do.

 

* * * * *

 

_Naturalist’s Log  
15 July 1850, 13:00_

The worst of the storm seems to have passed, and with it, much of my own physical discomfort. It does so help to be dry.

Throughout the long period of these gales, the storm birds were our constant companions, a plague of intolerable, grating screeching that left no one in peace: Sooty Albatross ( _Diomedea fuliginosa_ ) and Fulmar Petrel ( _Procellaria glacialis_ ) in greater numbers than I would expect to see this far north. Either pressed by hunger or emboldened by the fury of the storm, they flew constantly within a few feet of the ship; darting almost with the celerity of lightning at the slightest object they saw floating on the water, and uttering that remarkable shrill noise so peculiar to the storm birds of the ocean.

I wonder –

 

* * * * *

 

_Captain’s Log  
15 July 1850, 23:00_

Confound Sherlock Holmes, confound his brother, and confound every inclination I ever had to sail after confounded James Sholto!

 

* * * * *

 

_Naturalist’s Log  
16 July 1850, 02:30_

Devised a scheme to bait a hook and float it astern with a piece of corkwood attached. The birds seized upon it with voracity, and in this way I procured one of the large wandering Albatrosses. When conscious of being caught he immediately dived, and on rising with wings expanded to their utmost extent, threw himself partially on his back, thereby adding increased power to the great surface of resistance presented to my efforts in hauling, and by this means bent the hook, which finally escaped from his mouth, and was drawn on board perfectly straight. The bird rose proudly, shook his head, and flapping his wings as if conscious of success, betook himself to flight.

I subsequently caught two of these creatures with no little difficulty. Measured at 10 and 11 ft., weighed 19 and 21 lbs. respectively. They were magnificent looking birds; plumage was white, with a mottled grey back, undercarriage, wings-head and legs of a pink colour. They ejected a large quantity of yellow oily matter (sample collected for analysis), as if sickness had suddenly supervened on their change of element. Stomach contents upon dissection: appended.

It pains me to say it, but privately I will admit that my brother was correct about Captain Watson: he is indeed most interesting, though entirely too preoccupied with observing inane conventionalities.

 

* * * * *

 

_Captain’s Log  
16 July 1850, 08:00_

Have just had a lengthy discourse with Mr. Sherlock Holmes as to why it is not politic to kill and dissect albatrosses while aboard ship, particularly following weeks of gales. Of all bloody things, why he would select an _albatross_ is beyond me – and to lure it in full view of the crew, and with such exuberance! The man claims to have no knowledge of naval tradition (and certainly none of Coleridge), great though his understanding of zoology and biology apparently is. It is hard to credit, but he seemed in earnest. He replied to my reprimand with utter disdain and carried on with his dissection; it seems he plans to catalogue the stomach contents of Arctic fauna throughout the voyage to some arcane scientific end, and may God have mercy upon our souls. He is a most interesting person, but it will take some delicacy if the crew is not to throw him over the side before we reach land, and with some reason. Had Lestrade issue the men a double ration of spirits.

He looked better, though. If not exactly well, at least better.

 

* * * * *

 

_Ship’s Log  
19 July 1850_

We have discovered that during the storms, water found its way into the bread-room. As soon as circumstances admitted, its contents were brought on deck for survey. No less a quantity than 986 lbs. was condemned as unfit for use, and thrown overboard. This would be a great loss under any circumstances, but particularly in ours, for we lack the luxury of a reprovisioning stop. We shall have to make do and stretch what we have. As long as we are careful, we will not starve.

 

* * * * *

 

_Ship’s Log  
7 August 1850_

Disaster has again befallen us. At 06:30 (Lestrade being the officer of the watch) a squall from the west-south-west suddenly took the ship, which carried away her fore and main top masts, and top gaunt masts, together with the jib-boom—a direful casualty under the circumstances of our position. All hands were called to shorten sail and clear the wreck. Luckily for us the squall was of short duration, and the wind subsequently, for a short time, fell light.

The spars with the rigging attached were hanging over the ship's side, and four of our men in their activity and zeal, had got out on the jib- boom before this was carried away (which it was subsequently to the topmasts) and with it were precipitated into the water—the ship pitching heavily at the time. All the crew were in immediate activity to save their messmates, our smallest boat manned in less time than it takes to write it. They were found clinging tenaciously to the rigging attached to the spars, and were soon picked up under the bows, having fortunately sustained no injury, only the discomfort of their temporary submersion.

Several whales had appeared about the ship, and were still close to us, spouting with a loud blowing noise, their graceful curves of water into the air. We became somewhat anxious for the safety of the little boat, as one of those huge monsters rising under her keel, or a stroke of its powerful tail, would inevitably have capsized her; she regained us, however, in safety. During the remainder of the day, all was bustle and activity in repairing the damages. Nothing could exceed the zeal with which our men work, and Lestrade first among them.

 

* * * * *

 

_Ship’s Log  
14 August, 1850_

Repairs at last complete, and we begin to make good ground in what has been a difficult crossing. We knew the northern route would pose challenges; it certainly did that. 

In the course of the day we exchanged colours with two American whalers, which were apparently full and homeward bound. Several whales were also seen spouting at a distance, and the carcass of one floated past us, with myriads of sea birds regaling themselves upon its flesh.

 

* * * * *

 

_Naturalist’s Log  
14 August, 1850_

Extraordinary stroke of luck! Sailed through a pod of whales around noon, and minutes later a young carcass floated past! In short order I was rowing the dingy out to examine it – imagine the state of it! Entirely uncontaminated by man and touched only by natural processes! With my hinged saw and Cheselden gorget I was able to enact a speedy post-mortem and discovered numerous ulcers of the stomach and a severe parasitical infestation. List of stomach contents appended.

Samples taken from organs and tissues, and liquids acquired when possible. Well satisfied with the day’s work; I shall be several days at least in making my analyses. A most welcome respite from the unbearable monotony.

 

* * * * *

 

_Captain’s Log  
14 August, 1850_

Good Christ in heaven, give me strength to deal with Sherlock Holmes.

Today we observed firsthand the ample number of giant whales frequenting this sea (which enables us, incidentally, to testify to its excellence as a cruising ground for whalers). Early afternoon we sailed by the putrid, bloated carcass of a specimen which had died days ago: the smell wafted over the deck and disturbed the entire watch.

Holmes, the so-called naturalist and actual madman, was instantly into the dingy and over the side, and was soon shoulder-deep in rotting whale flesh, looking happier than I have ever seen him. It took three strong men to finally drag him, half drowned and fully frozen, back onto the ship. I’ve forbidden him from going below deck until he thoroughly bathes himself; his clothing I daresay we will drag behind the ship for a time.

The man is nothing but pleased with himself; the crew now alternates between horror, annoyance, and incredulity.

I confess I do not know what to make of him. He alternates between pathological lethargy of spirit and wild enthusiasms that are strange in the extreme. He becomes so enraptured, it is difficult not to be carried along with him.

 

* * * * *

 

_Ship’s Log  
21 August 1850_

First issue of warm clothing supplied by Holmes for our use: per man, there is one complete suit of blue double milled box cloth, boots, stockings, boot-hose, comforters, mitts and caps; all of excellent quality, and well adapted for Polar service.

The days have now attained such a length, that at the hour of midnight we have very good twilight, the sun being but a short time below the horizon.

At 20:00 a sail was observed bearing down towards us. We immediately communicated and greeted the HMS _Consort_. She had just returned from the ice, and afforded us a most unfavourable account of its state and condition, it being quite impenetrable. As she had viewed it from some three or four miles distant, not deeming it prudent to make a nearer approach, we were nothing daunted by the report but indulged in the hope that the reality of matters would prove less appalling than the description. We took advantage of her presence to forward our last letters and dispatches for England, then parted company and proceeded on our course. They informed us that they were regularly supplied by the natives with reindeer and birds, a large number of which was suspended from the rigging. This is a comfort, given the damage the storms did to our stores.

 

* * * * *

 

_Packet of letters (partial) from Investigator to London via HMS Consort, August 1850_

My dearest Molly,  
You’ll be pleased to hear that we’ve made the passage over with perfect ease, and you need not trouble yourself with that worry an instant longer. All is well – very well – and we now strike north in search of the _Erebus_. Already two months have passed since we departed London. Another ten and you shall be in my arms again. I miss you so, my darling.   
The crew is a good one, and I have no doubt of our safe return. When I am overwhelmed with thoughts of you, I plunge into work in hopes this year will pass the quicker for it – and Lord knows, there is no shortage of work to do. I know I shall have the sweetest, best reward at the end of it. I dream of you: sitting sweetly amongst your books and your gowns and the pretty trifles that fill your days, and, my dear, it sustains me. I must go, as our transport ship waits on our letters. I think of you daily – hourly – and hope you are well and happy, but not so happy that you do not miss   
Your faithful,  
Gregory

 

Mary,  
My dear, my own. The last time I was at sea, I had no wife to leave behind. Now that I do – I cannot lie; now that I do, it is harder, for I miss you so. I have no anxiety with regards to your wellbeing or happiness in London, for I know you have within you the capacity to thrive wherever you are, and whatever your circumstances: it is a quality I admire greatly and singularly fail to emulate. You’ll wish to know whether I’m sleeping; whether I eat? The answers are “no” and “yes, some” respectively. My dreams have not abated, and the closeness of my cabin does nothing to aid my comfort. Indeed, being again at sea seems to have rather increased their frequency. Unexpectedly, I’ve made something of a friend of the ship’s naturalist, who seems to be a fellow insomniac. He’s a strange consociate – ridiculous, really – but compelling. You’d approve.  
The mail ship departs shortly, and I must write our proprietor a bland account of our uneventful passage.   
All is well, my dear, all is well. All goes to plan, such as it is.   
Your husband,  
John

 

Mr. Mycroft Holmes,  
Sir, we have completed our crossing via the northern route with minimal delay despite inclement weather and some damage to the ship. The crew effected repairs, and we are none the poorer for it. The ship sails well, and the crew performs excellently. As yet we have no news of the _Erebus_ , but we could not have hoped to at this early stage of the search. Appended are charts of the crossing, Ship’s Surgeon’s notes, and full details of all repairs undertaken. In short: all proceeds as well as we could reasonably expect.  
If you will forgive my impudence, I wish also to relate that your brother regains his health and strength a little more every day, and I have hopes he will soon put the influence of his past indiscretions entirely behind him.   
Sincerely,  
Captain John Watson

 

* * * * *

_Told by Kumaglak of Salliq when the sky-dwellers appear_

The ends of the land and sea are bounded by an immense abyss, over which a narrow and dangerous pathway leads to the heavenly regions. The sky is a great dome of hard material arched over the Earth. There is a hole in it through which the spirits pass to the true heavens. Only the spirits of those who have died a voluntary or violent death, and the Raven, have been over this pathway. The spirits who live there light torches to guide the feet of new arrivals. They can be seen there feasting and playing and dancing together. The whistling crackling noise which sometimes accompanies the light of the sky-dwellers is the voices of these spirits trying to communicate with the people of the Earth. They should always be answered in a whisper. The spirits are called selamiut.

 

* * * * *

 

_Ship’s Log  
26 August 1850_

The Aurora Borealis was faintly seen for the first time on the night of the 1st September, but was much obscured by the dense haze which prevailed — it extended fully from N.E. to S.W. The force of a current setting N. 14° W. from 20 to 25 miles a day nearly antagonized the power of the wind.

 

* * * * *

 

_Ship’s Naturalist’s Log  
26 August 1850_

The temperature of sea-water fell three degrees in four hours, remaining a few tenths above freezing point, which led us to expect an early appearance of ice, that of air 41°. Depth of water varies from seventeen to twenty-four fathoms.

 

* * * * *

 

_Captain’s Log  
27 August 1850_

The men are now daily employed in occupations novel to many – including myself – in putting in order, and preparing all necessary implements for ice navigation: ice anchors and chisels, hatchets, saws, whale lines, &c. Under Lestrade’s careful instruction, all have been duly overhauled and got on deck in readiness for use. The crow's nest has been hoisted to its aerial position, at the fore-top-gallant mast head. Lestrade has rigged it up with a trap door at the bottom sufficiently large to admit one person, but hooded over at the top with canvas, so as to afford protection from the wind to its occupant, who is generally the ice master. From here, observation can be made of the ice in relative comfort.

Every day we creep closer to our quarry; closer to _him_ , and every day I grow more anxious. Holmes must see it – for he sees everything. We walk the deck every night, now, annoying the night watch to no end, I’m sure. My damned leg gives me no peace, nor do my dreams. With characteristic lack of tact, Holmes expounds upon my disposition, which he attributes to the freshness of my command. I hate that he sees my weakness, even if he misunderstands the cause. What more does he see?

He’s an interesting man: brilliant, I should say. I believe I understand how he fell into the abuse of cocaine, for his mind is like a machine, spinning ever quicker and careless of the pain it causes the flesh that houses it. He must surely be one of the foremost natural scientists our country has produced, for his knowledge of plant and animal anatomy and chemistry is profound. And he has no reference books, and few notes of his own: all is contained within his mind, carefully catalogued, labelled, and sorted. It really is most extraordinary. At the same time, he has almost no knowledge of the Sholto Expedition, beyond some vague notion of Arctic exploration. I have related to him all the information I have: the probable route of the _Erebus_ , the fraught history of the search for the Northwest Passage, the urgency of their mission, the heroism of Sholto himself.

Sometimes – more often than not, lately – I wake from my dreams to Holmes’s soft rap on my cabin door. We go up on deck and walk together then, he talking all the while about Larson’s latest theory of this, or the migratory habits of that. It seems unlikely that my comfort is Holmes’s concern, for he is careless of – well, of everyone, as near as I can discern – and yet it helps. It does help.

 

* * * * *

 

_Ship’s Naturalist’s Log  
28 August 1850_

The number of birds appears daily on the increase, driftwood also in greater abundance. The sea appears full of life; I had the dredge overboard, and added to my collection numerous specimens of the crustaceous and acephalous animals. Today we saw two white whales ( _Beluga borealis_ ) and a narwhal ( _Monodon monoceros_ ) going to the westward.

I should not trust Captain Watson. I should shun anyone in the paid employ of my brother on general principle. At any rate, he’s not thrown me overboard yet, so I suppose I owe him a debt of gratitude. Surely in his absence, the crew would have divested itself of my presence long ago.

 

* * * * *

 

_Ship’s Log  
30 August 1850_

During the night, the breeze freshened almost to the force of a gale, and was not quite favourable for us but by morning it had entirely subsided, with every indication of fine weather to come. All anxiously looking out for first appearance of land – the crow’s nest is seldom without an occupant; and as daylight is persistent, there is now no period of darkness to interrupt our view.

 

* * * * *

 

_Captain’s Log  
30 August 1850_

The hour of midnight comes, but I cannot sleep. This is to me the most enjoyable period of the day. All work on board has eased; everything is still and quiet, the watch only on deck reclining leisurely about, ready for action at a moment's notice. Now, too, the naturalist emerges from below to take the air. And all are hushed to silence, save the low murmuring of the wind, and the wash of waters from the ship’s progress. It is as if we are all taking in a deep, clean breath and holding it together. Poised – for we know not what.

In the long twilight, the aspect of the heavens is truly beautiful. A wide belt of refracted light extending along the horizon resolves into its prismatic colours, imparting a degree of beauty I have never before witnessed, and from the gorgeous and brilliant yet varied tints of colouring so wonderfully displayed to view, could not possibly be surpassed. The moon rises slowly in the same quarter.

At times, I feel fortunate to be here. Whatever the dissatisfactions of our lives, we are here to witness this great beauty. I tried to impart as much to Holmes; he made no reply.

 

* * * * *

 

_Ship’s log  
2 September 1850_

“Land sighted!” came the cry from the crow’s nest. Long. 60° 39' lat. 64° 31'. Double ration of spirits issued to the crew.

 

* * * * *

 

_Ship’s Log  
4 September 1850_

Difficulties of navigation abound and are much increased by the addition of fog, together with foul wind and currents. We have not even the land always in sight; yet creep along. We now approach the Davis Strait.

 

* * * * *

 

_Captain’s Log  
4 September 1850_

It is unlikely in the extreme that the _Erebus_ would be languishing anywhere to the south or east of Baffin Bay; yet now the hunt properly begins and we must be vigilant. Mr. Mycroft Holmes’s calculations put the wreck – for surely it must be a wreck – to the west of Prince Albert Island, and north of the 70 th parallel. I stare at the charts until I go cross-eyed, but it is the man in the crow’s nest who really matters now. I would wish to speak to Sherlock Holmes about the most efficient methods to employ in this search, for his mind is wonderfully methodical, but any mention of his brother or his brother’s plans and calculations sets off such a towering rage that I am glad the ship is free of his preferred poisons.

 

* * * * *

 

_Ship’s Naturalist’s Log  
5 September 1850_

Much noisy excitement this morning, as the lookout gave the signal that wreckage had been sighted ashore. Watson immediately weighed anchor; the jolly boat was manned and overboard within the hour. I took a place on the boat, of course, with my sample bag and instruments, and we rowed for shore.

Once ashore, Watson took off at a run towards the strange structures lying just inland. I’m sure I never saw a man look so terrified; it was most strange. The men followed more slowly.

It was a hike of under a mile. When I arrived, Watson was sitting back on his heels, his face very white. There is some mystery here; Watson is not as disinterested as he pretends. The structures, as Lestrade explained, were nothing more than Esquimaux store-houses for the products of the chase, containing the bones of animals, with other evidence of the locality having been at one time their resort.

I thought to have a look around. Old traces of encampments still existed in many places, and there is much to be gleaned from the leavings.

The men went to work erecting a mound of earth, in the centre of which they placed a board with the broad arrow painted on its surface, and a record of our visit deposited ten feet to the magnetic north. While this was in process of erection, I proceeded to the opposite side of the point, where I found an indentation of the coast, forming one of its numerous crescentic-shaped little bays. I was surprised at the vast quantity of driftwood accumulated on its shore, several acres being thickly covered with it, and many pieces at least sixty feet in length, the trunks of fine trees. I made a hasty examination and collected numerous excellent samples of soil and small flora, while the men surveyed the coastline as best they could; their knowledge being rudimentary at best.

Material analysis shall take a week, at least. A very satisfactory day.

 

* * * * *

 

_Captain’s Log  
5 September 1850, 23:00_

I cannot say how my heart leapt to my throat when first I saw those structures on the shore. I thought --.

In any case, we have made our first landing with success: Holmes obtained many samples and some surveying was completed. The only man disappointed was Lestrade, who had hoped to meet and converse with some of the local Esquimaux. Holmes seemed similarly keen, although now that his illness has passed he seems to be keen on an astonishing range of subjects.

Our work being completed, we reached the ship in safety soon after midnight. Our return was rendered pleasant by contemplating the magnificent appearance of the sky to the westward, tinted as it was by the most brilliant crimson I ever beheld.

 

* * * * *

 

_Told by the people of Qikiqtaaluk to each other over many years_

There are stories that cause great fear even now. The people on Qikiqtaaluk tell how two qallunaats killed two hunters sleeping under their kayaks. The qallunaats killed them without waking them up. There was one survivor who escaped. As he ran off there was a big bang but he didn’t fall.

 

* * * * *

 

_Ship’s Log  
9 September 1850_

Davis Strait is now behind us and we enter Baffin Bay, plotting a direct course to Lancaster Sound but keeping close enough to shore that any wreckage or debris will be immediately obvious to us. Supplementing rations with fish as much as possible; we must ensure our remaining stores will see us through the winter.

 

* * * * *

 

_Captain’s Log  
11 September 1850_

Around 18:00 the lookout espied an encampment on the shore. I know it cannot be our quarry – not so soon, nor so easily. I cannot allow myself to think otherwise; I cannot allow myself to hope. There is no debris in sight, and nothing to suggest a wreck. Lestrade expects an Esquimeaux encampment; we have seen dozens of figures through the glass. The men talk with a strange, half-fearful bravado at the prospect of encountering the natives. Tomorrow we shall launch the jolly boat and see what profitable information these strange fellows might have for us.

 

* * * * *

 

_Captain’s Log  
12 September 1850_

Launched jolly boat by 07:00 with a dozen men aboard including Lestrade (acting as interpreter) and Holmes (as naturalist). When about fifty yards distant from the shore, the boat grounded and a surf, heavy for the Polar Sea, broke over her, which obliged her to be carried to shore on the backs of the men.

It was then a walk of just over two miles to the encampment. As we approached, we were surprised to see only two men and a woman walking out to meet us. The huts, six in number, appeared deserted.

The men commenced to utter the most discordant yells and threats to deter us. We made friendly salutations with extended arms, but instead of recognition, we were greeted with wild gesticulations and more angry denunciations than before.

Holmes and I, being the first in our procession, moved towards them, I carrying my gun. But we found they would hold no intercourse, or allow us to approach nearer, unless we removed our guns, for which they appeared to entertain a great horror, and no less dread of the ship then in the offing, to which they frequently pointed. The guns were at once placed on the ground, but that would not satisfy them. I then handed mine to one of the men a short distance behind me, with no better result. They still resolutely repelled any advance until the guns were placed about one hundred yards distant. I was not easy in this arrangement, but upon Lestrade’s strong recommendation, complied.

Having given them proof of the friendly character of our visit, of which we again in words assured them, at the same time presenting a piece of tobacco to each, the whole aspect of affairs underwent a complete and sudden change. The Esquimaux approached, I am happy to say, without rubbing noses, and in their altered expression and demeanour evinced a desire at once to cultivate friendly relations. They allowed us to examine their bows and arrows, and by our desire fired at a mark — a piece of driftwood fixed in the soil about eighty yards distant: they elevated their bows in an instant without apparently taking aim, and pierced its centre; affording us ample evidence of what good targets we should have made for such unerring marksmen.

We then offered them several gifts with which they appeared greatly delighted: a little scarlet and blue cloth we gave them was particularly valued. As we conducted these transactions, more Esquimaux appeared from the huts where they had apparently been hiding. One by one they came, with greater or lesser expressions of disquiet. We did our best to put them all at ease.

 

* * * * *

 

_Ship’s Surgeon’s Log  
12 September 1850_

There was a woman amongst them who attended a young man who moved about by hopping with the aid of two sticks. Though Lestrade’s translation, I was informed that she was the second wife of the chief, and that the son suffered from an injury received in hunting. His mother at once came forward and removed his moccasin, as well as a piece of skin which quivered his leg, with a degree of care and gentleness not always seen in my own profession. I was shocked at the appearance which this poor fellow’s limb presented – the foot and lower part of the leg being in an advanced state of mortification, filthy in the extreme, and the only covering was a piece of hard skin. As the disease would inevitably be attended with the loss of the limb, and very likely of his life, I was anxious to get him on board, that it might be at once removed with the view of saving his life. This proposition they declined with extreme horror. I, therefore, recommended what was best to be done, but with little hope of its being attended to. In time, no doubt, he will be a victim to the savage custom of his race, described by Lestrade. As soon as the tribe leave the encampment for a trading or hunting excursion, the parents will take him to the summit of the highest land in the area, and there leave him to perish. From the parental care I saw manifested in this case, I am unwilling to believe they would subject him to such a fate, but after all one cannot foresee the actions of savages.

I was unable to ascertain with any degree of accuracy, what were the prevailing diseases among them; cutaneous diseases and chest afflictions appear the principal, as may be inferred from their filthy habits and rigorous climate. I saw several old people afflicted with chronic bronchitis and asthma. They all appear to suffer more or less from opthalmia— in the old people it is verv common, with inversion of the eyelids. Several appear to have lost their vision from opacity of cornea – the result of frequent attacks, produced by the combined influence of snow and sunshine. I saw none labouring under any form of congenital disease or deformity, and from what we could learn, there is seldom any mortality except amongst the old people and very young children; resulting in the latter I should say, from the effects of exposure. When famine exists or accidents occur, of course the case is different.

 

* * * * *

 

_Naturalist’s Log  
12 September 1850_

These Esquimaux! They are extraordinary. Their ingenuity in constructing implements of war and the chase, in preparing skins so as to render them waterproof, in the building of huts; the perseverance and tenacity no less than the success with which they follow the chase; their powers of patience, and endurance of cold and hunger, are unequalled by any other race on the face of the globe. There is much I would learn from them.

Their dress is formed of reindeer skin, but they wear the fur next the body for added warmth. I observed tattooing on the chin of the women: a series of dotted lines extended from the lower lip to the chin, forming one band about an inch in breadth. Its meaning is as of yet obscure to me, but must carry great symbolic weight.

At their request we adjourned to one of the huts, where we found a large fire of driftwood burning in the centre of the floor, on which were pieces of reindeer's flesh being cooked, but as black as charcoal: our visit having evidently led to its being neglected. Here we learned the following intelligence through the medium of Lestrade’s interpretation.

The elder of the two men we first met was the chief of the tribe, and the younger was his son; the woman his second wife, as polygamy exists amongst them. The chief wore a stunted beard, and a moustache represented by a few grey hairs; conveying to me the idea that he had seen some fifty winters. The ship having been observed yesterday, her appearance had caused the utmost consternation amongst the community, which numbers in all about fifty. They reside at this place throughout the year and do not go inland where their enemies reside.

As I stood at the fire next to the old chief, I observed a button suspended from his ear, worn as an earring, which, on examination, I found to be a flat metal button of English manufacture, with the word "London" stamped in a circular form on its inner surface. I immediately directed Captain Watson’s attention to the circumstance; and inquiries at once began as to the mode in which it came into his possession. Lestrade, looking quite startled, conveyed the intelligence that “an Indian like ourselves,” as they said, had traded him for it. The name of Indian is applied to all people dissimilar to themselves, and Lestrade concluded it could have been a European; but this was impossible to determine from their inability to compute time with accuracy. The chief said, on being questioned, it might have been last year, or when he was a boy; but on this point we could not ascertain the truth and were left in a state of painful anxiety, Watson especially. I believe I could have winnowed more information out of the man, but Watson was not disposed to “waste time.”

 

* * * * *

 

_Captain’s Log  
12 September, continued_

Intolerable to think that we could have been near to Sholto – could have been standing in his very footsteps – and not have known it. I questioned the chief repeatedly, until Lestrade bade me to stop in the interest of continued good relations. No success; the man had a mind like a child or an imbecile. He could tell me nothing of value. It was all a colossal waste of time, and Sholto could even now be freezing to death; starving to death alone on the ice. We must hasten our progress.

A mound was discernible about 100 yards inland from the small village, in which a pole was placed and a piece of animal skin or some such thing suspended from its top. Lestrade pronounced this a probable grave, possibly of a European; I confess, this statement staggered me. I bid Holmes conduct an examination, his powers of observation being greater than any man I’ve met.

 

* * * * *

_Naturalist’s Log  
12 September _

At the Captain’s request I examined a small mound of rocks perhaps 100 yards from the village. I brought the lame Esquimeau out with me, half carrying him along, for he struck me as being remarkably quick-witted and useful. I believe Lestrade was correct that the mound is indeed a cairn, but it seems unlikely to me that it holds the remains of a European. It is clearly old – far older than 5 or even 10 years. It was constructed as a solid mound, but the elements have tumbled it down somewhat, and the sharpness of the hide marker is much eroded by wind and weather. No scavenging animals were in evidence – not even traces of past incursions. Moss and pale lichen have covered much of the surface rock, their growth undisturbed. My companion was amazed by the attention I paid to the stones and the earth, not understanding their importance to us. We devised a rudimentary system of gestural communication between us and he showed me how tall he was when the cairn was built: no higher than my waist. Whoever lies there, it is not our man.

When I imparted this news to Watson, I feared he would faint, so pale and sickly did he look. He put his hand on my arm and thanked me – but would not look at me.

 

* * * * *

 

_Ohotkto tells of the coming of the quallunaat to the land of the Netsilingmiut:_

One day during the summer two men were fishing at Oweetee-week. When the men looked out to sea they could see a large black thing, not an animal, far out to sea. They had never seen such a thing before and were much alarmed, so they returned to the place where they lived and told the others.

The people gathered in the dance house to discuss the matter and the angeko gathered his charms and his white cloak of caribou belly to hide. He took a large deerskin and pegged it to the west wall of the house, had all of the lamps extinguished, then crawled behind the hide to talk to the spirits. All of the spirits said that the men had seen qallunaat, and that these were friendly.

None of the seal people had ever seen a qallunaat, but the wife of Archnaluak, who was named Kakekagiu, had head many stories from her sister who lived in the southlands: that the qallunaat had given the Inuit many fine presents of wood and iron, that they were very rich in all of the things which the seal-people most lacked.

The next day, the Great Spirit brought the qallunaat to a very good place, near Sarfak where the Tunrit ruins are. This place was later called Qavdlunarsiofik. But then the qallunaats stepped out of their umiak and the people were afraid. Some said that the Great Spirit would destroy the people if they did not kill these strangers, but Kakekagiu spoke to the angeko and together they overruled them.

They decided to hide all the people in the dance house and to send Niungitsoq out with his wife and son to see what the white men would do.

A group of twelve white men marched in from the sea. Two of them came forward and stopped. The other white men came up and laid their weapons on the ice, and then the Inuit put down their knives and harpoons, and soon all were embracing and dancing together.

The Inuit brought the qallunaat to their lodge and shared meat with them. There was one who could speak our language, but his words were like a child’s. We found that they were simple minded. They would not eat our meat, and asked strange and rude questions. They made the men angry, very angry, but Kakekagiu showed us that they were like children and must be pitied. They had no skins or furs to protect them from the cold. Soon winter would come and Negafook would drag them away to their deaths. When they saw this, the men began to relax. These strange child-men could not hurt the Inuit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next week: Holmes and Watson grow closer; each wonders what it means.


	4. September – October 1850

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Holmes and Watson grow closer; each wonders what it means.

Mrs. M. Hudson  
78 St Cross Road  
Winchester

13 September, 1850

Dear Mrs. Hudson,

I write in haste; I know you will forgive my abruptness. Papa has had one of his episodes. Despite my best efforts I provoke him dreadfully, and at last I could not pacify him. It was a most terrible night. Might we come to you for a month? I feel the country air might soothe him, and the promise of your excellent company may be enough to entice him away from London. He felt the loss of Mr. Hudson so keenly. Doctor Bell says we may travel when my arm is healed, in perhaps two or three weeks. 

I would not dream of imposing excessively on your kindness. Perhaps you have two rooms available that we could take for the month of October?

Your affectionate,

Molly Hooper

* * * * *

_Ship’s Log  
15 September 1850_

In our slow progress north through Baffin Bay we have for two days run alongside a large island, the temptation of which induced some of us to forego sleep and explore it. From the great number of seals visible on the shore, we concluded that fish were plentiful; and, with a view to procuring provisions, we filled the jolly boat with fishing and hunting gear, and a party of us proceeded to the shore. Upon landing, we kindled a huge fire of drift-wood; some commenced preparations for fishing, while others proceeded to explore the island, and took our guns in expectation of meeting with some of the numerous flocks of ducks that had been observed. The party returned to the ship by 02:00 well supplied with fresh game.

* * * * *

_Naturalist’s Log  
15 September 1850_

Went to land briefly this evening. Found the island to be chiefly composed of sand, shingle, and driftwood; the beach was sloping, with the greatest elevation near the water, from the pressure of the ice forcing up the sand. It was quite devoid of verdure – a few tufts of saxifrage and stunted grass the only trace of vegetation. The pebbles were of granitic character, with porphyry, clay-slate, mica-schist, ironstone, &c., all smooth, and much water-worn.

Further inland, the little island was rich in fossil remains, chiefly corallines (encrinites and pentacrinates). The upper surface is composed of small stones and pebbles, with coralline ledges closely cemented to each other; and the rock beneath, which is composed of granulated, bituminous limestone, emitted the distinctive odour when struck or fractured, and in some situations was plentifully studded with garnets. Numerous uni- and bivalve fossils, chiefly species of Cyathopyllum, Turbo, Bucdnum, Orthis, and Terebratida were likewise strewn on the surface, presenting good specimens of calcareous petrifaction. It was a relief to exercise the cataloguing capacities of my mind, however slightly.

Watson and I walked inland a little; this companionship seems to have become a habit between us now. I rambled – my God, how I rambled. I heard my voice in my own ears, but could not seem to stop. I have not felt myself since I boarded the ship; it was such a relief to be away from the horrid, stinking close quarters. His eyes exhibit unusual levels of central heterochromia: green and blue, grey and brown, with flecks of gold. Most unusual and very subtle; one must look closely to even perceive it. I shall think on how to properly catalogue the colour.

* * * * *

_Captain’s Log  
15 September 1850_

Holmes and I walked inland for an hour, perhaps more, while Lestrade, Anderson, Lyons, Evans, and Kerr stayed fishing by the shore. We found two crania of whales, saw traces of foxes, and came on the recent track of a bear, where he had been feasting on the body of a seal but a very short time before. These we followed (at Holmes’s insistence) in the hope of meeting with him, as they were the first traces we had met with; but he had betaken himself to the ice. We came upon what appeared to be a well-trodden bear path, which led us to suppose this island was a frequent resort of these hoary denizens of the north, with whom Holmes longs to have an encounter. Despite the danger, I confess to being rather eager myself.

The ship receded as we walked; first shore, then fire were lost beyond the horizon.

It was the most alone we’ve ever been, and we both felt it. He spoke freely, and in a way that made me aware of how constrained he is aboard ship. Does he fear his brother’s influence there, even at such a distance? I wonder, but did not ask. I had no wish to spoil his happiness in that moment.

He had no such compunction about myself, I was amused to find; the man rattled off observations and deductions about my life in London and my habits aboard ship as easily as breathing, all the while stooping to collect samples and examine flora. He knew much about Mary simply by observing my clothing. He knew more than I have spoken to any man. I should have thought him a dreadful spy had I not previously seen his mind in action. He was, in short, quite brilliant, and I told him so.  

He said nothing to that, surprisingly, but simply handed me a bit of raw garnet that he’d scavenged off the ground, saying roughly that it was in excess of his scientific requirements. A lovely little stone it is: specks of gold mottled with green and blue, grey and brown, and hints of warm depths within. I shall keep it for my watch chain.

As it was approaching midnight, we retraced our steps towards the boat, the blaze of the huge fire burning brightly in the distance.

I feel myself on dangerous ground. I am not, I think, a very good man.

* * * * *

_Ship’s Log  
18 September_

We continue slowly up Baffin Bay, eyes always to the coastline. Nothing of any consequence to report; we are becoming initiated into the routine. The weather maintains a pretty favourable character.

* * * * *

_Asuilaak tells the legend of Sedna  
At Qikiqtarjuaq, two moons after the great storm_

Once there lived on a solitary shore an old man with his daughter Sedna. His wife had been dead for some time and the two led a quiet life. Sedna grew up to be a handsome girl and the youths came from all around to sue for her hand, but she would accept none of them. Finally, at the breaking up of the ice in the spring a great fisherman came from over the ice and wooed Sedna by offering her father a great cache of dried fish. Her father could not resist and sent his daughter away over the sea with the strange fisherman. When at last they reached the home of the fisherman, after a long and hard journey, Sedna discovered that her husband had deceived her. When his foot touched land, he transformed into a fulmar. Her new home was not built of beautiful pelts, as he had promised, but was covered with wretched fishskins, full of holes, that gave free entrance to the wind and snow. Instead of soft reindeer skins, her bed was made of hard walrus hides and she had to live on the miserable fish which the other fulmars brought her. In her despair she sang:

_Aya._  
_O father, if you knew how wretched I am_  
_you would come to me._  
_Aya aya aya_  
_O come and take me back home._  
_Aya._

When a year had passed and the sea was again stirred by warmer winds, the father left his country to visit Sedna. His daughter greeted him joyfully and besought him to take her back home. The father hearing of the outrages wrought upon his daughter determined upon revenge. He killed the fulmar, took Sedna into his boat, and they quickly left the country which had brought so much sorrow to Sedna. When the other fulmars came home and found their companion dead and his wife gone, they all flew away in search of the fugitives. Their cries of rage and anguish can still be heard.

Having flown a short distance they discerned the boat and with their wings they stirred up a heavy storm. The sea rose in immense waves that threatened the pair with destruction. In this mortal peril the father offered Sedna to the birds, flinging her overboard. She clung to the edge of the boat. The father then took a knife and cut off her fingers. Falling into the sea they were transformed into whales. Sedna holding onto the boat more tightly, her hands fell under the sharp knife and swam away as seals; when the father cut off her forearms they became walruses. At last, with a great blow to her head, Sedna fell away entirely and sank under the waves. She lives there forever, commanding the sea creatures that are born of her body. That is why the hunters sing songs to her and why the liver of the first-killed seal is always returned to the sea.

* * * * *

18 September 1850

Dearest Molly,

I do hope the parcel reached you safely: that’s New Forest venison sausage, my dear, and good Alton apples. Have cook braise them up together with some potatoes over a medium fire, and Mr. Hooper will be happiness itself – but mind you eat some yourself! You’re such a slip of a girl. Also sent up a small pot of salve; do let me know if you like it. I can send more as needed. I found it most effective for drawing out bruises in Mr. Hudson’s day.

Of course, you must come! You must come: at once, or as soon as you are able. I have sent an invitation to Mr. Hooper under separate cover. Your rooms are ready and waiting, as indeed is

Your old friend,

Mrs. Hudson

* * * * *

_Ship’s Log  
20 September 1850_

At 06:00, “ice ahead” was reported from the crow’s nest – soon after which many an eager eye was directed to the white line, then visible on the northern horizon; and as we advanced towards it, the sea presented an aspect truly novel to many of us, as the detached masses of ice, in form the most picturesque, majestically floated down in our direction. As we stood on, the breeze gradually became much lighter, and the temperature fell several degrees. The masses of loose ice became more numerous, and in proportion considerably greater than before. Large pieces coming in our course were cleft by the ship, producing a slight shock, a grating noise, and an equally strange sensation amongst us, as the fragments having been partially submerged were dashed on either side, while the breeze bore us steadily along. The main pack soon became visible, and as chilling as was its aspect, I am not sure that we did not hail it with a cheer. It was reached about noon, in lat 72° N., long. 75° 11' W.

* * * * *

_Captain’s Log  
20 September 1850_

The ice certainly presents a formidable appearance; its lofty, impenetrable barrier extends across our path in a line from N.W. to S.E. This, Holmes assures me, is much heightened by the refractive power of the atmosphere, together with the uniformity of surface which ice generally presents from the fragments not being entirely clear of each other. Although it looks forbidding it may be quite navigable, what is termed loose-sailing ice. This, however, can only be determined by a near approach. We tacked to and fro until the edge of the pack was reached, which was much more distant than we at first supposed. The mass lost nothing of its heavy impenetrable character on actually reaching it. For the rest of the day we continued tacking along its edge.

* * * * *

_Naturalist’s Log  
20 September_

Numerous herds of walruses (Trichecus Rosmarus) grouped together on the large detached masses of ice. The depth of water which they frequent varied from 24 to 37 fathoms. Astonishing ignorance on display as men who have never seen them before speculate as to what they could possibly be. Must remember to tell John; he has a pleasing appreciation for idiocy.

* * * * *

_Captain’s Log  
21 September_

We follow the trending of the pack in loose sailing ice in the hope of making our way to the north; but numerous are our disappointments, as taking advantage of every opening that was presented we followed its course only to be arrested by the impenetrable pack.

At times we came heavily in contact with detached pieces through which we could not force our way. On the first occasion when it became necessary to send some of our men on the ice to assist us, great was the rivalry manifested as to who should first touch its surface; but after a considerable display of agility, the honour was claimed by the Boatswain.

* * * * *

_Ship’s Log  
22 September_

Temperatures fell to freezing point for the first time. Throughout the day it varied much, together with the sea water— from eight to twelve degrees. Light ice formed on deck and in the rigging, although the navigable season in these regions is considered to extend well into this period, and in some years much later.

* * * * *

_Ship’s Log  
23 September_

Early this morning a gale blew in from the south west which brought us in sight of the coast, to our great relief. We soon approached the land, which presented the appearance of a continuous bank of shingle, having an outwork of dark rocks here and there along the water’s edge, near one of which on the coast northeast we observed several mounds into each of which poles were inserted; at first, we supposed them to indicate provision depots left by Sholto’s crew, but Lestrade thought they must instead be graves, it being the custom of the local tribes of Esquimaux to mark their places of sepulture in this manner.

At 13:00 the ice was reported from the masthead, as extending right across our path, but sufficiently loose to sail through. On approaching we found it a stream of floe ice detached from the main pack, but forming an ineffectual barrier to our progress. We entered it with a fine breeze, and a crowd of canvas, and after receiving sundry hard knocks, and inflicting destruction on all the decaying fragments that came within our reach, we again entered clear water, and altered course more to the north yard, following the line of ice.

During the remainder of the day, we sailed through a field of loose ice, but as the breeze had fallen light, our progress was much diminished since the morning. We anxiously looked out for the land, which we had previously lost sight of; towards midnight it could be discerned from the mast-head, the low point far in the distance, but still indistinct from the fog then rising on the eastern horizon.

* * * * *

_Captain’s Log  
24 September 1850_

Holmes requests – nay, demands – that we weigh anchor for a day and row to shore to examine the Esquimeaux graves. I have explained the urgency of the mission, but my refusal rankles. He is cold and angry. Cold: yes, he is cold. Saving a life must always take precedence over the study of the dead, regardless of how unlikely he deems our success. Perhaps he has no confidence in his brother’s plans, but I would have hoped he would trust my own judgement as captain.

Vain hope.

* * * * *

_Naturalist’s Log  
24 September 1850_

Several whales ( _Balcna Mystketus_ ) and seals ( _Phoca Vituhna_ ) were seen during the day, and soundings varied from 14 to 73 fathoms in mud and sand, with broken shells at intervals.

The Captain refuses to return to the Esquimeaux graves observed yesterday; this though our supply of game and fish runs low and we must stop soon, regardless. His focus on this Sholto man is almost a sort of _idee-fixe_ , and his interest in everything else is peripheral. It begins to impede my own work. Enraging.

* * * * *

_Ship’s Log  
25 September 1850_

The wind has entirely forsaken us. We lie becalmed, surrounded on all sides by loose ice, in which there is every probability of our being beset, should a fresh breeze not come to our rescue.

* * * * *

_Ship’s Log  
26 September 1850_

We lay all night with all our canvas set, hanging sluggishly from the yards on the glassy surface of a sheet of water some two or three miles in diameter, apparently ice-locked. Masses of snow-white ice, in form resembling little ‘islands,’ were interspersed around, with intervening spaces of water. Numerous as they were there was light sufficient to display the outline of each as they floated motionless on the surface of the sleeping sea, with the distant and uneven pack all around, forming a land-like but ice-locked boundary, resembling one of our own northern lakes in its wintry garb. There a vivid imagination might readily have taken a flight far from the Polar Sea, in contemplating the icy scene which surrounded us, the novelty of which was only surpassed by its beauty.

It was our object to sail north, and the obstacles which then presented themselves were of no ordinary nature. A light air had sprung up that compelled us to tack to and fro in the narrow channels between the floes. It soon afterwards freshened considerably, and ultimately increased to the force of a moderate gale from the south-east, accompanied with rain and sleet. Our situation then became very critical, as the wind blowing off the land, and aided by currents, brought all the loose floe ice rapidly down on the main pack in which there was but too much reason to fear we might become beset. We, therefore, took advantage of the breeze, and took our course to the east-north-east, through heavy, loose fragments, but were soon obliged to tack to W.S.W, owing to the obstruction offered by a great field of impenetrable ice, which might have been our destruction. We continued working the ship close-hauled, alternately to the N.E. and S. W., endeavouring to make progress north, and get clear of the perilous position in which we were placed, from the rapidity with which the ice was then setting down on us.

It was quite appalling to observe immense floes coming on towards us. Some fragments it was impossible to avoid, and as the ship struck them from time to time, the shock was tremendous, and vibrated through every timber of her solid framework -- even endangering the safety of the masts; and it was only by an effort, that anyone could maintain his equilibrium on deck. Towards midnight our satisfaction was great, on finding ourselves in more open water, and in observing the floes less numerous. At this time the loom of land was reported from aloft. 

* * * * *

_Captain’s Log  
27 September 1850_

The point is moot now, I suppose, for we have left Holmes’s precious Esquimeaux graves far behind us, of necessity if nothing else. I cannot afford the luxury of attachment; I cannot allow myself to be blinded, or turned. It is the same terrible conundrum--. It is the same. And now I add hypocrisy to my other sins, for what cared I for my captain’s orders when –.

* * * * *

_Ship’s Log  
28 September_

In the course of the morning, the wind quite died away, leaving us again becalmed, surrounded by heavy ice and drifting to the northward. In an effort to reposition the ship in an open channel of water, all our available boats were at once called upon to tow— the first time we have had recourse to this tedious operation—leaving only a few men on board to work the ship along the narrow and tortuous channels through which we wended our way. All cheerfully lent their aid, wherever it could be available, to facilitate our progress and free us from our difficulties.

The boats were of great service, and never did men work with more zeal or energy. Nor were we less occupied on board, it requiring the exercise of all our skill, not only in the steering, but in tacking and trimming almost incessantly to keep clear of the ice, with which, despite our best efforts, we frequently came in contact. We thus continued our slow advance throughout the day.

About two hours later, we had cleared the limit of the ice, and joyfully hailed our return to open water.

We were greatly relieved to have escaped from the perilous position we had been placed in during the preceding days; and as it was the first time we had come in actual conflict with the foe, we had good reason to be pleased with ourselves.

It was generally remarked that the character of the ice was much heavier than that generally met with at this time of year.

* * * * *

_Captain’s Log  
28 September 1850_

It was back-breaking work, towing the ship through the slim channels in the ice – and it went on and on, seemingly endlessly. Holmes was the first on the jolly boat. He refused rest, refused meals, and worked harder than all the others; I do believe he made up for his weeks of idleness in a single day. And over the course of many hours, whenever our work brought us into contact or whenever he caught my eye, he looked at me with such disdain, with such a faintly sneering expression, as if to mock the men’s passion for our mission, and my own. It makes me rage to think of it even now. I was obliged to turn my back; I don’t know what I would have done.

* * * * *

_Naturalist’s Log  
29 September 1850_

The water has gained in temperature but steadily decreased in density, having fallen from 1012 to 1008 in twenty-four hours; and it has likewise become brackish and discoloured from the admixture of fresh water flowing from the numerous tributary streams along the shore.

As the sun touched the icy horizon towards midnight, it presented the most splendid appearance I have ever witnessed, and one on which the naked eye could barely for a moment rest, owing to a dazzling brightness surrounding the disc. It was free from those gorgeous and varied tints I have previously noticed, and now presented one vast sheet of silvery flame, illumining the horizon with a degree of magnificence to be seen in no other region of the world. It is one of those compensating sights icy regions alone can furnish, as the beautiful effect was entirely produced by the reflection of the sun's rays from its snow-white surface.

The captain and I did not speak today. Now he has gone below, and I walk the deck alone.

I long for – my violin. For all that I’ve not played it in years, tonight my fingers crave the sharp bite of the strings.

* * * * *

_Naturalist’s Log  
30 September 1850_

Another day. Dull, dull, dull. Water and sky. The captain avoids me. Nights like this are the most difficult to bear without the seven percent solution.

* * * * *

_Ship’s Log  
1 October 1850_

About 05:00, having reached within three miles of the shore off of Lancaster Sound in an area known as Possession Bay, we saw an object on shore which we thought was a beacon. We immediately launched the jolly boat and pulled steadily towards it.

The morning being cold and foggy, we had a long and cheerless pull to the shore. On reaching it, we found the island to be about three miles long, and about half that in breadth entirely composed of sand and shingle with great quantities of driftwood strewn on its surface, which, together with the combined action of the ice and currents had doubtless led to its formation.

* * * * *

_Captain’s Log  
1 October 1850_

As we approached in the boat, I fancied that I saw two figures in motion but distance and the fog then present did not enable me to speak with certainty; nor did anyone else aboard see anything. I could feel Holmes’ eyes upon me, and turned away. I cannot trust my eyes, maybe, but if it had been Sholto or any of his men, they would surely have approached us.

We made land and walked to the beacon we had viewed from the ship, finding it to be nothing more than a small pile of rocks and driftwood with a spar, about twelve feet long, placed vertically in its centre. It was tumbled down almost to the point of total destruction, but it left no doubt in our minds of its being the work of human hands. The question was, were those hands civilized or savage? There were none of the expected signs of European influence here; for if Sholto had left a beacon, he would presumably have left a food cache and a written record of the expedition’s progress. Here, we had only scattered stones and worn hunks of wood. Esquimeaux, then: another cairn worth nothing to us.

The men and I started to move away, muttering about wasted time, But Holmes, lagging somewhat behind, suddenly fell upon the cairn with a cry.

He presented an astonishing spectacle, crawling about upon his hands and knees, then examining every inch of the spar with minute care. He ignored the rest of us completely; he may not care a whit for our mission, but give the man a puzzle to solve and he cannot resist.

After a time, he came away from the beacon and examined the area surrounding. He was particularly interested in a large piece of ice, some twelve or fourteen feet across, which, from the effects of pressure, had been forced on the beach. I could make nothing of it, but Holmes examined it closely with his glass, sometimes stopping to pick at it with a gloved finger.

I set the men to work digging out the cairn, of curiosity if nothing else. Then I joined Holmes at the ice.

“Observe, Watson,” he said at last – the first words he had spoken to me in days. “This is old ice. The surface has the appearance of being trodden on. It is compressed, but smoothly so, as if by a skin slipper: not a European boot, which leaves a distinctive tread. The cold has preserved its appearance. Beneath the compression points are things you should recognize: what is this?” he asked, pointing to a small grey lump in the ice in his hand. I took it up in astonishment.

“Holmes! Surely this is an oat?”

“Scintillating, captain.” His words were mocking, but his voice betrayed his own pleasure in discovery. “ _Avena sativa_ : the common oat. I suspect even _you_ are aware that it is not a native plant to these shores. Sholto, or perhaps some of his men, were here – I cannot say when, but certainly not recently – and left a cache of food that has since been disturbed and removed. If you would care to look over this piece of ice, you can see other fragments of evidence confirming this deduction. Traces of wheat flour, even, here and here.”

“Show me.”

We spent a good half of an hour kneeling there, Holmes revealing incontrovertible evidence that the so-called beacon or cairn had in fact been a cache left by Europeans.

Then he rose, and began to walk in slow circles, expanding outward, from the site of the ruined cache, his eyes trained on the ground. His circle widened until he was out of our sight. I did not accompany him. The men, now used to Holmes’s eccentricities, shrugged and returned to their work.

Not half of an hour later, there was a familiar shout in the distance. We raced across the island to find Holmes kneeling, once more, in the dirt. A scrubby clump of moss campion covered an exposed rock, and Holmes was pulling it apart with careful fingers. Wedged alongside and half-overgrown was a bundle of brown rags, so hidden that I cannot imagine that any but his keen eyes would have seen it.   

“Here is something that has been discarded as worthless, whether by human or animal hand, it is impossible to determine,” he said, as his careful fingers retrieved it, “but I daresay you will see some value in it.”

He thrust it into my hands, and turned away. I strove to still the trembling in my hands. It was a little sheaf of papers, rolled up and wrapped in rags, and bound with a bit of cord. By what miracle it now rests with me, I cannot say. But then again, perhaps that miracle is nothing more or less than the skill of my friend, Sherlock Holmes.

* * * * *

 _Told by Inookie, who was there at_ _Qallunaataqhiuvik_ _when the qallunaats first came:_

That first night, everyone was scared, not knowing what was in our hunting territory. We all gathered in one of the tents with quite a few of our shamans. Qiqtutumuaruq was the most powerful shaman, and when he went into his trance, he told us that what we had seen were qallunaat. He said, “We do not have to be afraid of them.” Next morning it was very clear and beautiful weather, and so we decided to walk over. The shaman had told us the qallunaat were not dangerous, not to be scared; they were people, and not dangerous.

One man said, “We should war with these people,” but the other Inuit said, “If we war, we will not win. As long as they’re peaceful people, not violent or aggressive, let’s be the way they are. We won’t lose any men and they won’t lose men either.” Just in case something didn’t go right, we took along our long spears with blades of bone and antler.

As we got closer, these big people from the ship came out and the Inuit all lined up. They probably were expecting something worse, so they were ready. The shaman told us, “Maniktumiq. Smoothly, not aggressively.”

The Inuit all stood together and said the same word: “Maniktumiq. Maniktumiq.” It was a prayer to a greater power; a prayer to the spirit. All together we began walking gently and smoothly, not aggressively. 

But right away, there were some conflicts, because they weren’t quite Inuit. Right away there were some grudges. Maybe the qallunaat had good intentions, but they had never seen Inuit before and Inuit had never seen qallunaat.

Many of us were frightened. We didn’t want to give in to these people because we didn’t know what they were. Because they weren’t quite Inuit. And their clothes – how they dressed! They had no sealskins or caribou hide. We had never seen clothes like theirs. Eventually we decided the qallunaat were dressed in rags, because we knew their clothes could never protect them from the cold. We wondered “why are they dressed like that? It’s very cold; their clothes are not fit for this kind of weather.” We thought, perhaps they are ghosts who cannot feel the cold.

* * * * *

 _Record deposited by Captain James Sholto_  
Of the HMS Erebus  
27 August, 1846

Herewith are deposited full records of the voyage of the HMS Erebus _en route_ to discover the Northwest Passage to the Orient, and further to explore the Northern Arctic regions and claim the territory for the glory of Queen Victoria and her imperishable British Empire.

As documented in our three previous caches (location coordinates appended), the voyage out has thus far met with great success, and is likely to continue in the same mien. It is my firm belief that our ship’s log and the crew’s personal remembrances will provide full information about our experiences on the ice upon our eventual return to England. The Arctic waters are perilous, however, and thus the practice of leaving intermittent records of our findings in hopes that, should we not survive, yet others will profit from our experiences.

As another method of leaving record of our having gone along the coast, for any other ship that might follow us, I ordered that the word “London” should be stamped on a series of small copper buttons, to be distributed amongst the local Esquimeaux far as our resources could effect it. Any subsequent ships may discover these upon meeting the tribes, and thus know of our prior claim to the territory.

Our progress to the eastward has been much retarded by baffling winds and currents. We seldom now average more than twenty or thirty miles a day. It may therefore, be easily supposed how ardently we hope for a leading wind. We put to land at this site just under a fortnight ago, hoping to replenish our stores of game and of the scant wild leaves which the Esquimeaux have shown us to act as mildly effective antiscorbutic agents – particularly vital as our lime ran dry after our first year.

Certainly, the most interesting aspect of the journey thus far has been the Esquimeaux. Since we do not have a naturalist with our party, I shall note down my own inexpert findings here. Luckily, our present encampment has allowed us to develop strong relations with the local tribe, which appears to be intelligent and cheerful.

Their clothing is almost universally composed of deer-skin. The lower garments are sometimes continuous over the feet and legs; but more generally, the boots are separate, with a coat or jerkin covering the body, ending behind in a peak. A hood is attached to the coat, which is the only head-covering they use. The dress of the women is made sufficiently capacious to allow of their carrying their young children (for whom they appear to entertain much affection) either in the hood, or in contact with their skin, and they manage to do it very adroitly. Polygamy exists among them, when the women are sufficiently numerous; the number of the wives depends on the wealth of the husband and his ability to maintain them. They appear to be bound by stronger bonds of affection than is usually observed amoung savage nations; but their standard of morality is evidently low, and a husband will gladly traffic with the virtue of a wife for purposes of gain. I have strenuously opposed the inclination of some of our men to take advantage of this moral weakness, but have not always been successful, human nature being what it is. Repeated instances of this were evinced in our intercourse; and no feeling of jealousy appears to exist amongst them. The women do the greater part of the out-door work, except hunting and fishing: they, however, enjoy a higher position and more consideration than is usual amongst savages. The women manifest affection for their children but the father appears to be stoically indifferent. They are not a prolific race from all I could learn; and male children are ever more welcome than females.

They have no idea of numbers, more than what is represented by the fingers, nor can they express their ideas of time in any other way than by the indications afforded by moon and sun, which are vague and unsatisfactory.

Being desirous of ascertaining their stature, they readily submitted to our measuring them, which appeared to afford them much amusement. Both sexes are tattooed on the chin, having a vertical line about half an inch broad in the centre, extending from the lip, with a parallel but narrower one on either side of it, a little apart. They give ample evidence of the muscularity and strength of their limbs; and certainly I never saw firmer, more compact, or much better formed specimens. Their hands, notwithstanding the great amount of manual labour to which they are subject, are beautifully small and well formed – a description equally applicable to their feet; and their teeth, white and regular, were displayed to considerable advantage in the hearty laugh in which they frequently indulged.

The men are keen and expert hunters, and afford ample evidence in their appearance, look and movements, of being possessed of all the essentials to ensure success in the chase. When so much depends on the result of their exertions — nothing short of their existence as a race amid the dreary wilds of their abode — it may readily be imagined how keenly the perceptive faculties are exercised, when such powerful incentives are ever present to prompt them to exertion. In regions where nature is so sparing of her gifts, I need not speak of the enduring patience, hardships and privations, which this enterprizing hardy race are compelled to undergo, along the inhospitable, snow-clad coast, of the Polar Sea.

Upon first landing here, my lieutenant initially had concerns how we would protect ourselves from the Esquimeaux, in case they should take it into their heads to act in aggression. Their numbers were great enough to do us significant mischief. We had, therefore, to teach them to regard us and ours with the greatest respect, and at last we hit upon a method of accomplishing this. A powerful mine was buried beneath a snow hut at a good distance from the ship, and a train laid from the ship and well covered with snow. When that was ready, we collected the Esquimeaux together by the ship. I spoke to them about the white man’s power; that we could spread destruction about us, and even at a great distance accomplish the most extraordinary things. It was, consequently, for them to behave themselves properly and not expose themselves to our terrible anger. With a terrific report the igloo blew up, and clouds of snow burst high into the air. This was all that was required.

Sadly, however, they remain much given to pilfering and cheating when engaged in barter. Numerous instances of their being possessed of both propensities occurred within the first week of our encampment, where their cupidity became much excited by what they saw, and where there existed no moral, controlling power to restrain them. They are much addicted to falsehood, and seldom tell truth, if there be anything to gain by departing from it. Almost everything they see, they make an attempt to steal -- chiefly articles of iron from the ship -- and when detected, they manifest no sign of shame or remorse.

And yet, nothing can exceed their civility to us. They appear surprised we do not indulge in raw fish as freely as themselves, and are exceedingly anxious that all our party should stay and over-winter with them. They offered us many inducements to do so, the chief one being that they would summon the rest of the tribe to meet us and make merry.

I trust the day is not far distant when the light of civilization will dawn on this poor and benighted, but intelligent race of beings; for it is deplorable to think that there exists in the Queen's dominions people so utterly neglected as they have been, without an effort having ever been made by the rulers of their land (here, the Hudson's Bay Company) to ameliorate their condition, or remove them from a state of heathen darkness. But where monopoly exists, progress is arrested; and it is to be hoped the wisdom of our legislature will, ere long, destroy the one and promote the other, and thus develop the resources of their country to the permanent advancement and happiness of its inhabitants.

And so we bury this letter with a cache of supplies for our return or for those who come after us, and press north. We shall deposit another cache as future circumstances permit.

We all have regrets; we all have loved ones left behind. We commend ourselves to their fond memories.

_Free as the wind that leaps from out the North,_  
_When storms are hurrying forth,_  
_Up-springs the voice of England, trumpet-clear,_  
_Which all the world shall hear,_  
_As one may hear God's thunder over-head,_  
_A voice that echoes through the sunset red,_  
_And through the fiery portals of the morn_  
_Where, day by day, the golden hours are born,_  
_A voice to urge the strengthening of the bands_  
_That bind our Empire Lands_  
_With such a love as none shall put to scorn!_

_They little know our England who deny_  
_The claim we have, from zone to furthest zone,_  
_To belt the beauteous earth,_  
_And treat the clamorous ocean as our own_  
_In all the measuring of its monstrous girth._  
_The tempest calls to us, and we reply;_  
_And not, as cowards do, in under-tone!_

_With Freedom's flag uplifted, and unfurled;_  
_And this our rallying-cry, whate'er befall,_  
_Goodwill to men, and peace throughout the world,_  
_But England, England, England over all!_

 * * * * *

  _Inookie of_ _Qallunaataqhiuvik_ _continues her story:_

After the qallunaats departed, we hurried to see the strange inukshuk they had built. But it made no sense, and the people thought it was another sign of the qallunaats’ madness. They had made a great mound and covered it with a piece of skin-that-was-not-skin, and covered _that_ with rocks and then sand – quite thick – and driftwood, and when we uncovered this we found many sacks and hard casks of strange substances.

One of the little casks held a quantity of the small brown squares we had seen the qallunaats burn in their mouths. Ulluriaq started using these as her toys – they were perfectly square. But one day some moisture came in the sealskin tent. As a result, the squares got wet and when we came into the tent, we smelled something foul. We wondered what it was. So we went to where Ulluriaq kept her toys and realized it was those squares. Her father collected all of them and threw them away.

The sacks were full of little crumbling blocks and different powders; we could not conceive of their purpose in burying such things. Ulluriaq and the other children took the blocks and tossed them back and forth until they crumbled to dust. Then the children discovered they could hit the sacks of powder and they would appear to smoke. They beat the sacks until they were emptied of their powders and then gave them to the women so that we could make use of the sacks. They were all having fun – laughing, seeing the smoke blowing in the air. They said, “We have made a new kind of snow!” and the women shook out the last of the crumbs and said, “We have made a new kind of raindrops.”

* * * * *

_Ship’s Log  
2 October 1850_

Having discovered Sholto’s cache and the Erebus records by virtue of naturalist Holmes’s exceptional observational skill, we returned to the Investigator and immediately set sail in a northeasterly direction. We now know that we are on the correct course.

* * * * *

_Captain’s Log  
2 October 1850_

The letter! My God, what a letter. I laughed to read it, once I was safely in the privacy of my cabin; it was like hearing his very voice in my ear. The supercilious, officious, maddening... It was so like the public Sholto, the captain, the commander – and so little like the man I know.

But then – his last line… 

We must get him back. I believe I see at last how the thing can be accomplished: it is not, after all, as hopeless as seeking a needle in a stack of hay. Holmes is the key, and I must approach him carefully for he will not be willing and his temperament is somewhat difficult. I will bide my time. Days will pass. I will allow our relations to thaw naturally and return to a state of easy friendship: our disagreement of the last week will surely blow over. And then we shall see if I cannot convince him.

* * * * *

_Captain’s Log  
15 October 1850_

This evening, finally, I quelled my nerves with whiskey and finally approached Sherlock in the twilight hour. The man is susceptible to flattery of his talents and skills; I have noted it many times. And so, I began by commenting on some small task he had completed this afternoon, and making of it an example of his fine observational acuity, which I then took the opportunity to extoll.

He rolled his eyes and said nothing, but coloured up charmingly.

“You wish for my assistance in your ‘mission’ to find Sholto, do you not?” he asked abruptly.

I am sure I am not a very subtle man, but still he startled me with his perception. “Sherlock, please.” I took him by the arm, and our positions made me remember our first walk together on deck, and marvel at how we had changed – for now I required _his_ help. “If we are to stand a chance at finding him alive and well, we need your active help and participation. The only reason we found the last cache was your persistence and skill. Please. Help me. Plan and strategize with me. Come to my cabin. Examine the charts. Work with me.”

He snorted. “He’s not alive, John. Whatever my brother made you believe, it is almost certain that he and his men have perished. After five years, the likelihood of finding survivors is almost nil. And even if he were – I am not here to do my brother’s work.” His voice was tight and ugly.

“That is pride, and it is unworthy of you,” I replied, becoming angry myself. “For the sake of some fraternal rivalry, you refuse to help save a life – perhaps many lives? Are you a machine, to so lack a heart?”

His eyes were icy when they turned on me, and I shivered despite myself.

“So I have been reliably informed.” His voice was sneering now.

“Put your mind to good use, I beg you. I _beg_ you! To the saving of a life!”

He snorted. “You know as I well as I do that Sholto is almost certainly dead.”

I refused to argue that point again. “To the service of the empire, then.”

“ _Certainly_ not.”

I hesitated.

“To me?”

There was a long silence. He turned and walked away.

* * * * *

_Naturalist’s Log  
15 October 1850_

He is far from disinterested in this mission, whatever he claims.

Never have I been called generous, or applauded for selflessness: these things are not in my repertoire of feeling. What he asks of me –. He does not understand how far outside of my character he asks me to act.

I am not, I think, a very good man.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next week: the crew of the Investigator prepares to overwinter on the ice.


	5. October – December 1850

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The crew of the Investigator prepares to overwinter on the ice.

_15 October 1850  
Ship’s Log_

We proceed towards the Barrow Strait in a westerly direction. Progress is slow, but still we hope to reach Parry Sound before winter falls and navigation becomes impossible. Surveillance of the shore line continues, the duty being relegated to the three or four crewmen with the sharpest eyes, in rotating shifts of six hours each. Fruitless thus far.

* * * * *

_16 October 1850  
Captain’s Log_

As the season wears on and winter approaches, the ice makes travel ever more perilous and slow. I dare not push our pace for fear of running up against a berg and damaging the ship, but it is almost unbearable to watch the coastline inch by so slowly. And each night when the temperature drops, I am reminded that _he_ must feel the cold even more keenly than we do. What must the prospect of another winter on the ice – a fifth – do to a man? I think on it too deeply, but what is my torment to his?

I no longer walk the decks in the evenings, but keep to my cabins, where it is quieter.  

* * * * *

_17 October 1850  
Naturalist’s Log_

The nights lengthen and temperatures begin to drop. The formation young ice is apparently a serious obstacle to Arctic navigation; as I am confined to this ship, I have made it an object of study.

Ice first appears in the form of minute flocculi, which gradually become larger, more opaque and globular, then coalesce. They possess for some time their spherical outline, until pressure identifies them more closely with each other, when a thin film becomes formed on the surface of the water, imparting to it an oily appearance, to which the insipid name of “pancake ice” has been given. This becomes broken up by the slightest contact with heavier ice; and the fragments sliding under, or over each other, acquire greater thickness. From frequent repetition of the same process, and the continuance of low temperature, they soon acquire strength and thickness, become united with others, and form a frozen surface through which a ship cannot possibly penetrate when thus surrounded. These floes undergo the same liability of being broken up, by the pressure of heavier masses, the fragments become thrown up, and cemented to each other forming packed ice, which may go on increasing, together with the accumulation of snow, for periods of indefinite duration, and ultimately present that terrific, indeed impenetrable barrier to navigation so frequent in those seas. Wind is the great antagonistic agent to the formation of young ice; but when this is absent, and the temperature falls, it is surprising to see with what rapidity congelation takes place.

The only interesting person on the entire ship is abstracted and useless, and I? I am reduced to watching water freeze.

* * * * *

_Ship’s Log  
20 October 1850_

Our position has not materially altered. On the 18th we drifted a little further to the north, and the morning being very clear, at an early hour the ice mate was sent aloft to report on the relative state of the ice and land -- his field of vision embracing an extent of, at least, twenty miles. No land could be seen directly to the northward in the line of the Strait; but that on the western side bore away to the northwest, and that on the opposite side to the north-east. This is, indeed, very gratifying intelligence – there is now no doubt that we have entered Barrow Strait.

* * * * *

_Captain’s Log  
22 October 1850_

I am constantly striving not to think or speak of things. It has always been a necessary condition of my existence, it seems: the knowledge that some things must not be spoken – generally, the most important things. Silence is safest, is it not?

Holmes and I have grown adept at skirting around our discord, neither abandoning our position, nor wishing to upset our delicate cordial relations. We are not as close as we were. I feel it keenly, but I _cannot_ think that he is in the right.

How lonely it is to be captain. I have heard the phrase before, “the solitude of command.” _~~He~~_ ~~suffered with it, I know, before we –. I did not understand it then. I do now. It has been so long since I –.~~

_[Final sentences redacted.]_

* * * * *

22 October 1850

The Sheffield Female Political Association  
Miss Janine Hawkins, Secretary  
37 Upper Hannover Street

Dearest Janine,

Possibly you have heard the news, but it is worth sharing again: Lord Howard has agreed to submit the petition to the House of Lords early in the New Year. As per the resolution passed at the May assembly, Abiah Higginbotham will draw up the final wording for approval by the Association’s executive at the January meeting.

I have written to Abiah at great length upon the subject, and she is in agreement that the petition must call for the entire enfranchisement of our sex, regardless of birth, property, education, and so on, and must rest upon rational arguments rather than sentimentality. There is a portion of our membership who would have us press our so-called moral advantage, and use the imagined purity and goodness of our sex as the sole argument for suffrage. There are those who would attempt to combine nominal equality between men and women with enforced distinctions in their privileges and functions. _What is wanted for women is equal rights, equal admission to all social privileges; not a position apart, a sort of sentimental priesthood_. Casting ourselves as the moral guardians of the nation will do us no good in the future, and only serves to divide our movement now.

The only question of any import is, whether it is right and expedient that one-half of the human race should pass through life in a state of forced subordination to the other half. Any other question is a distraction from our ultimate goal.

I trust you are yourself in agreement. Anything you can do to sway our more, shall we say, angelic sisters-at-arms to our own understanding in advance of the January meeting would be most helpful.

And now I must beg forgiveness for the businesslike tone of my letter, for I am equally desirous to know: how are you, dearest? Is your mother well, and does Mr. Greengrocer continue to pay her his alarming attentions? What are you reading, and what think you of the new Dickens? (Is it not appallingly dull?) You must come up to London next month and see the new construction in Hyde Park; the so-called Crystal Palace is ostentatiously allegorical.

Yours,

Mary

* * * * *

_25 October 1850  
Ship’s Log_

The ice floes are now large enough that we are able to secure the ship tightly to the side of a likely specimen and so drift safely alongside. Throughout the night of October 23 we drifted slightly to the southward, and at 5 a.m. on the 24th we came in contact with a large piece of floe ice, which striking the ship on the starboard quarter, swung her completely round and carried away one five inch halser with a tremendous crash. Although the impact of the ice was violent, happily no casualty occurred. No time was lost in remedying the disaster, and we were again secured to the same floe, with a nine and six inch halser. Soon after this occurrence, another large piece of ice struck the rudder head, which was swung for the sake of security, about six feet above the water line across the ship's stern, and carried away the life-buoy. Some idea may be formed of the magnitude of the ice that assailed us, from the fact of its striking the rudder head at such an elevation— a repetition of which was guarded against by hoisting it still higher.

We continued throughout the day heading steadily to the northeast. At evening we sighted an island four miles distant, Leopold Island, in all likelihood, and the wind abating, the ice opened as the pressure diminished, and a few narrow lines of water could be seen here and there. This tended very materially to ease its embrace on the ship, and we had got more into the centre of the Strait, sounding in from 34 to 62 fathoms water. We lost sight of the island towards the evening, which was a restless and anxious one to all. A quantity of heavy ice frequently struck the vessel, pressing and grinding against her trembling side, but fortunately with no serious consequence.

At 23:00 on the 24th, all being still and silent about the ship, the whole mass of ice to the northward of our position appeared as if under the influence of some wonderful convulsion of nature, and came with sudden and alarming force against the ship's side. All hands were speedily on deck, but entirely helpless as the ice bore down heavily and steadily on us, and pressed us against the floe which had hitherto borne us in safety through such an adventurous course. While it resisted, the ship was elevated nearly two feet out of water, inclining about fifteen degrees to that side from which the pressure came. Had she not risen in this way, she would to a certainty have been crushed. Had the force continued, it must have thrown her broadside on the ice — fortunately it ceased within the space of fifteen minutes from its commencement. Some of us had knapsacks ready for a start, as it lay not in our power to do aught that could avert the danger; and all hands stood breathless on deck, until it again became suddenly silent.

We remained, however, in an anxious, uncomfortable state throughout the night, not knowing the moment when our safety, and that of our ship might not be again as suddenly imperiled. We dared not go to rest, but merely lay down with our clothes on, and knapsacks under our heads, ready to start on the first sound of alarm. During the middle watch, we had a repetition of the pressure, but less heavy than before. On the morning of the 25th, we found we had been carried to the southward, and had approached nearer the coast: a lane of water had also appeared in the direction of the former, in which a few seals were sporting. So we escaped again into open water.

* * * * *

_25 October 1850  
Captain’s Log_

The dreams took me last night, in a way they rarely do. Almost always, once I realize I’m dreaming, I can wake myself and escape. But last night –. Flames engulfed me, and smoke filled my lungs. Slowly, the flames took on a monstrous character: screeching and moaning like dying men. I tried to wake. I knew it was not real, and tried to wake, bashing my head down again and again, praying I would wake before _he_ appeared, as he always does, flames licking his flesh; a scream in his throat. I could not end it. I could not. Sholto appeared; begging. His features shimmered and shifted, and then Sherlock Holmes stood before me. I watched in horror as his flesh melted off his face; all the while he screamed and cursed me for my failure, and I was paralyzed with the horror of it. I could not move. Not to save my life, and certainly not to save his.

Suddenly – it was not just him, not just me: the whole world was screaming, rending, shuddering in a deadly paroxysm. I know now it was the vibration of the timbers of the ship, protesting under pressure as the ice bore down on them, the greatest amount of pressure having come on the quarter close to my cabin – but I did not know, then. I rolled, retching, gasping, off of my bunk, covered with sweat and entirely disoriented. The sound persisted: what was dream and what was reality, I could not discern. I shook and shook, and vomited up over the floor.

I know not how long I crouched there, but the next thing I knew there was a hand on my shoulder, and a kind voice in my ear. It was Holmes – pressing a clean handkerchief to my face, bidding me rise. He was well. He, at least, was well. It had all been a trick of an unstable mind.

He brought me to his cabin and sat me on his bunk. He treated me with kindness I do not deserve: poured out a generous measure of brandy and helped me to drink it, and helped me gather myself before facing the frightened men above deck. I must not be so weak.

* * * * *

_26 October 1850  
Naturalist’s Log_

I must admit that lying trembling on deck in the middle of a frigid night with 30 other men, listening to thousands of pounds of ice attempt to destroy the vessel that is the only thing keeping you alive is a circumstance which brings the essence of things into stark relief.

The ice has granted me two boons of late: a moderately interesting interruption in the monotony of the voyage, and a resumption of my previous close relations with John, for we spent the night beside each other with nothing to do but converse while the rest of the men somehow snored around us. We spoke of the Indies – of adventures he’d had in warmer climes where icebergs are but a terrible legend for native sailors to tell their sons. He told me what he could remember of the flora and fauna of the region, but he is not a trained naturalist and his memory is imperfect; it was good, though, just to hear him speak. We spent many hours together, but for all that, I could not, through subtle or blatant enticements, persuade him to speak of Sholto. On that point, he will not budge. He wishes me to find the man, but will not give me all the facts. I cannot pull information from the air! It is tremendously frustrating.

* * * * *

Mrs. Watson  
23 Little Eastcheap Street  
London

26 October 1850

Darling Mary,

Delightful news, and a delightful invitation. I shall be up next month for a week or perhaps two: and you, my dear, are charged with keeping me from mischief. I shall fill you in on all the sordid details then.

As to the business of your letter. I do, of course, agree with you entirely.

As you yourself know, I can be quite persuasive when I wish to be, and I have now turned all my efforts to the more recalcitrant members of our little association. How they cannot see the dangers and flaws inherent in their arguments is beyond me, but I have my own stratagems, and I make headway.

I do not rage, Mary. Oh no – you would be quite proud of me. Instead, I smile and I charm. Innocently, I ask, _why_ the existence of one-half of the species should be merely ancillary to that of the other, and _why_ each woman should be a mere appendage to a man, allowed to have no interests of her own, that there may be nothing to compete in her mind with his interests and his pleasure. And then I say, with wide-eyed wonder, the only reason which can be given is, that men like it! It is agreeable to men that they should live for their own sake, and women for the sake of men. It is agreeable to them that we learn to think it so natural that we do not question it. It is agreeable to them that we accept some abstract notion of moral superiority, as long as we cede all _actual_ power to them. And if this is so, how can our moral superiority – unquestioned, you understand – how can it have any persuasive weight with such self-interested creatures?

And they look startled, Mary. Some of them physically flinch, and I do feel for the matron who must return home to cook her husband’s dinner after learning to see him as her captor for the first time. The thing we must remember is: we are united in a common goal, and women – regardless of the vagaries of their arguments – can never be our enemies. Not even those who oppose our methods most stridently.

And now, that is enough politics for today. _David Copperfield_ is dreadful; I have not read a word of it. I have a new lilac frock that cost far too much money and is shockingly becoming. I shall see you in a fortnight and you shall be wild with jealousy. Incidentally, perhaps you’ve heard of an interesting social establishment just off Covent Garden for men and women of certain libertine attitudes? Far be it from me to corrupt the sanctity of your hearth, Mary, but I shall stand you a gin at Dukes, and we’ll each find a gentleman for the evening, yes? Or have you perhaps come to your senses and changed your mind (again) about other possibilities? Ah, you know I only tease. I sometimes miss the old days.

All my love,

Janine

* * * * *

_31 October 1850  
Ship’s Log_

Progress has been slow, but we have now made it through Barrow Strait. Towards morning, the wind fell very light, and was succeeded by a calm. Several small spaces of open water opened around us, affording room for the ice masses coming up from the southward to drift more rapidly, grinding against us in their course. Although the temperature remains low, the cold is not so severely felt as on the few previous days, owing to the absence of wind; but everything wears a most wintry appearance and the moisture of the atmosphere rapidly freezing as it falls, gives a coating of snow-white frost to the yards, rigging, and every part of the ship.

As our stores of fresh meat run low, we think it best to replenish while the opportunity exists, and now launch a hunting expedition to a small island in the Strait, listed on charts as Russel Island, but not well known.

* * * * *

_31 October 1850  
Naturalist’s Log _

All my resolutions turned to dust in the face of Captain Watson’s command. “Come,” he said, and I could not refuse; there was such quiet resolve in his voice. The irrationality of it irritates me to no end—but still I agreed without thinking, almost. I really must master myself.

* * * * *

_31 October 1850  
Captain’s Log_

Thank God – _thank God_ – that we stopped where we did, and thank God for Sherlock Holmes. We went ashore mid-morning, the men spreading out in small groups with hunting rifles and snares. Holmes and I walked inland a little, but seeing nothing of interest, were soon back at the shore preparing a butchering station to process the meat we anticipated the men would bring back.

We worked together in silence, and it was good to bend our strength to a common task.

The men began to trickle back in the late afternoon. The island being small, most of the kills were smaller mammals: two dozen rabbits, a few ptarmigan, a brace of geese. The last party to arrive dragged a young polar bear between them; they had been lucky to stumble upon him as he bent to drink at a tiny freshwater spring, and it was only because he was so young – perhaps only 3 years old – that they had been able to carry him at all.

Holmes was in agonies that he had not seen the bear alive, but we consoled him with the promise of stomach contents for analysis and his complaints subsided.

Anderson, who had bagged the bear in the first place, quickly incised the abdomen and began the butchery, handing off the stomach to Holmes with a derisive sneer; I must keep watch on that.

Holmes took no notice of him, but turned his back and prepared to make his observations of the organ.

Each man was bent to his business when Holmes suddenly gave a startled cry. I dropped my knife and ran to where he crouched in the snow over the bloody organ. He looked up at me with the greatest surprise. “Captain,” he said faintly, “here is something you must see.”

He dipped his hand into the mess of gore at his feet and pulled up – something – which he held gingerly between his fingers.

“There, do you see?” he asked.

We stared at him, uncomprehending.

He snarled impatiently and thrust it out into Anderson’s face. “There!” he said, and then brought it to me. “And there!”

 “It’s a handful of shit,” Anderson said, and laughed roughly.

“It is,” Holmes agreed. “And if you believe that is all it is, perhaps you have succumbed to premature snow blindness. For Heaven’s sake!” He pulled out his pocket handkerchief and carefully wiped the object clean. Something now glinted in his hand.

“Is that –?” I could not finish my sentence.

He nodded. “A button. A clue, Captain.”

Anderson snorted. “Oh yes! Play in shit and call it a clue.”

Holmes turned his back and continued. “Look here. ‘London’ is inscribed, just like the last we found.”

We looked at each other silently.

“They are close,” I whispered at last.

He shook his head. “They _were_ close. There is nothing to indicate –”

But I did not hear the end of his sentence. Already I was running, running, and calling out orders while I ran, to mount a search: _to find them_.

All the rest of the long day we searched that island from shore to shore. We found nothing.

* * * * *

_1 November 1850  
Ship’s Log_

We have discovered more evidence of the Sholto Expedition, in the form of a button in the belly of a young bear killed by a hunting party, but as of yet we have not located a landmark or cairn or any evidence of life. Russel Island is too small to support a settlement; we make now for the mainland just to the south. It is visible from the island; if Sholto and his men were here, they would surely sail for that more prosperous shore. And too, if they were never here, and the bear simply carried the button along with him in his travels, he must have come from that direction, as he could not have swum further.

* * * * *

_3 November 1850  
Ship’s Log_

At 04:00, the ship weighed anchor off shore and a party of a dozen men set out in the jolly boat, but our progress south was arrested by a stream of young ice, which obliged us to make a little detour to the eastward, our pikes proving of much service in testing its power of bearing; and thus we pioneered the way. Within about one mile of the shore, we were obliged to leave the boat and walk in, for the ice was thick enough that we could not easily break through, and it bore our weight with reasonable consistency. Here we discovered that the field on which we were walking was in rapid motion, and passed along the in shore grounded floe, in such close contact as to throw up some heavy pieces, packing them together. As it was our object to get on the grounded floe, and so on to the shore, feeling satisfied that the motion was entirely owing to the tides, I approached the edge of some young ice to test its capability of bearing us with my pike, when it gave way under me, and I fell, but was quickly picked up by some of our party, with only partial immersion. Ship’s Naturalist requested I return to the ship at once, but I did not deem such a precaution necessary, particularly as we were so close to achieving our object. For there on the shore, as if waiting for us, was a landmark built up of rocks and driftwood. It was the work of but a few minutes to unearth the record buried within it. There was no food cache this time, but a small bundle of rags wrapped around a water-tight tin which held a sheaf of papers.

* * * * *

 _Record of the voyage_  
of the HMS Erebus  
21 November 1847

It is late in the season for us to be in this position. We have not yet made camp, and the temperature plunges. I write this in great haste, for although time is short, a record must be left. 

We weighed anchor at Cape Dundas as per our planned route, and rowed the jolly boat to shore through ice shards and slush. Our goal: to make visual survey of the coast and to confirm the viability of the current route of the Passage. We have been leisurely in our progress thus far, enjoying the novelties this strange land affords; but our mission being now half completed, we all seem set on working towards a timely completion. In short: we grow tired and our thoughts turn towards home.

After the exercise of some adroitness and activity in our movements, we managed to clamber up the sides of the inshore floe, when the ice was still in process of packing. It afforded us no very steady footing, but ultimately we succeeded in passing this formidable outwork to the shore, on which it had been forced up to the base of the cliffs we were approaching, from the effects of the late movements in the pack. We computed the distance from the ship to be about five miles. This part of the coast presented a bolder appearance than elsewhere; its almost vertical escarpment was interrupted in several places by deep gorges, and up the precipitous side of one we ascended; the looseness of its sandy soil enabling us to do so with comparative ease. On attaining the summit of this cliff, about 150 feet high, we assembled our little party and took formal possession of the land in the name of our most gracious Sovereign, planted the ensign of St. George, and, with three hearty cheers, completed the ceremony by drinking health and long life to our beloved Queen and His Royal Highness Prince Albert.

The men made hasty explorations, and were delighted with the short run they had had on land, which they familiarly called their own. We then prepared to ascend the high land, from whence we could complete our survey. Anticipating a hike of two or three hours, we left four men to erect the mound under which we will bury this record, and to prepare dinner during our absence. The general aspect partook of the usual undulating, hillocky character, with the same unvarying sterility and barrenness. The ascent was at first gradual, in the ravines through which we passed; snow had accumulated in great quantity, into which we sunk deeply, rendering it fatiguing, from the efforts required to extricate ourselves.

From the top of the escarpment we could clearly trace the termination of the western land to a headland or cape of considerable elevation, while that on the eastern side trended away to the north-east, with a clear, undoubted field of packed ice, intervening. Everything, therefore, was fully confirmatory of the opinions previously formed, and no doubt could remain as to the existence of a Passage. From the summit of that hill, I felt convinced that the highway to England from ocean to ocean lay before us, and that we are on the very cusp of establishing the existence of a Northwest Passage.

As the temperature did not admit of our remaining long at rest, we commenced the descent, delighted beyond measure at the result of our observations; and, as the luncheon carried in an outside pocket had become so hard frozen that we could not eat it, there was no unnecessary delay.

The hour had grown late, however, whilst we had made our ascent, for it had taken much longer than anticipated due to the deep snow. Much fatigued and exhausted from our long march and want of food; yet from the lateness of the hour there existed every probability of our passing the night in the open. As the cold had become severely felt, from the lightness of our clothing, we could not remain at rest more than a few minutes at a time, owing to the rapid abstraction of body heat, and were consequently obliged to keep in constant motion. We, therefore, retraced our steps over the rugged, slippery course, which it had cost us so much labour to cross but a short time before. It had then become quite dark, and as we were unable to distinguish the unevenness and irregularities of the ice over which we walked, or rather clambered we were falling incessantly. We appeared to have lost due power over our limbs, from the effects of cold and exhaustion, the alteration in the ice, and our intense thirst. We had advanced about a mile or two, our eyes anxiously directed towards the ship, when we halted to fire our guns, in the hope of receiving some token of observation; but in vain. Again we started—a light was seen hoisted at the mast head of the ship, but this was nothing more than what might have been expected to point out her position, and did not allow us to hope for any immediate succour. With the increasing darkness, the appearance of the weather had become more dreary and wilder than before— thus cold, hungry, and thirsty, without covering, there was increasing probability of our spending the night away from the ship, and as our small stock of ammunition was well-nigh exhausted, the chances of our being able to attract a party to our position were likewise diminishing. Rockets were seen fired from the ship, and a gun at intervals; but like the light at the mast-head, they afforded us no other comfort than the knowledge of its being done to direct our homeward course.

Our thirst was intense. At last, with the aid of a few matches, the wick that had been immersed in the spirits of wine, and some pieces of paper, we contrived to melt as much ice in our little kettle, as afforded to each of us nearly a wine glassful of water — which proved a great luxury, although a little brackish. And then we were once more in motion, clambering over the rough slippery ice; with falls heavy and frequent, as it was impossible to see our way clearly in the darkness. Time thus wore on, while we still wandered about, occasionally taking a few minutes' rest, with an irresistible desire to sleep, until the cold compelled us to be again in motion.

After a time, we knew not how long, one man – Jack Simpson, as we later knew – fell in the snow and did not get up again. By the time we realized his absence, we had walked far enough in the darkness that we could not find him again: this though we made a great hue and cry, and spread out to search as best we could. The driving wind made it unlikely that we would hear his answer to our calls.

In the killing freeze, we had nothing to do by go on, taking careful note of our companions and watching for weakness in their gait.

In the course of the night, two more of our party fell: Jim Kirk and Dr. Lemay. They were dead by the time they hit the ground, eyes already freezing over. We could not carry them, not in our reduced condition, and to stay with their bodies would have cost all our lives, for none of us is immune to the profound cold.

We left them with our prayers, and went on. They bore the consequence of my own failure to properly anticipate the requirements of the expedition, and their deaths are on my conscience.

About 03:00, a light could be seen approaching us, and soon afterwards signals were fired in succession from the direction of the shore – a search party.

We stood on the ice, near helpless from the effects of cold, fatigue, and hunger, anxiously awaiting their arrival. When they arrived, we threw ourselves on the ice and hastily partook of some food, and a draught of water, the first thing called for; this, by constant agitation, and by being nearly in contact with the skin, they had maintained in the fluid state. This greatly revived us and we again proceeded onwards as rapidly as our exhausted state would allow, falling and tumbling about like drunken men whom we resembled not only in gait, but likewise in speech.

Thus terminates a sorrowful adventure. It is dawn now, and we have attained the shore – all exhausted, frozen, half dead. I am the last man to board the jolly boat. I shall finish this record and commend it to the mound. We have been twenty-seven hours absent from the ship—walking, I may say, the entire time. The distance exceeded thirty miles, which in consideration of the nature of the ground, was more trying than double the distance over level country; and what with the intense cold of the night, no tents, inadequate clothing, and entire want of food, there was but too much reason to fear that morning would have furnished a much longer list of casualties.

We will press on. We are close – so very close – to the Passage. We will not winter here, but will press on until the ice makes progress impossible and we are forced by God’s own hand to stop. In this way, we honour our fallen comrades, our fallen friends.

Jack Simpson  
James Kirk  
Patrick Lemay

Let them now rest from their labors.

_Captain James Sholto_

* * * * *

_1 November 1850  
Captain’s Log_

I cannot think of this. I cannot speak or think of what this will have cost him. Nothing I can say can help him now, and so there is nothing worth saying at all.

My impulse, like his, is to push north. Why should we sit and wait for the ice to find us? Are we not men? Shall we not act?

* * * * *

_4 November 1850  
Ship’s Log_

Little distance in the past days. There is every appearance of the pack becoming stationary; and no one doubts that our winter must be spent in its grasp. We press on for whatever final distance we can in these last days before winter.

* * * * *

_5 November 1850  
Naturalist’s Log_

The calm stillness of the atmosphere affords us a magnificent parhelion from which a zone of pale yellow light encircles the heavens, making a striking contrast with the azure blue and the softened mixed tints of the sky. A faint parasellena was observed yesterday, but was not remarkable for its beauty. Nearly the last of the feathery tribe was also seen—a solitary ptarmigan wending its way to the south. Several seals made their appearance wherever there was a little space of water to be found, and the stillness of the day was frequently interrupted by the hoarse croaking of a couple of ravens which kept flying circularly about us— the sound, I must say, falling mournfully on the ear.

The captain speaks only in short bursts of commands, and only to Lestrade. He looks at me with suspicion, when he looks at me at all, as though I am a snake coiled to strike. I do not know what has occurred that our good relations, so recently restored, have once again soured. I do not understand him at all. Truly, itemizing the stomach contents of a polar bear is less trying than attempting to comprehend John Watson.

* * * * *

_7 November 1850  
Captain’s Log_

The ice thickens by the day. I fear any hope of finding Sholto before the winter must be abandoned. I stand on the threshold of a bitter failure.

* * * * *

_12 November 1850  
Ship’s Log_

The thickness of young ice has been measured at twenty inches: preparations are now underway for finally closing in for the winter. We overwinter here: 74° 2' 26.5272'' N and 99° 53' 55.2552'' W; just to the east of Parry Sound.

Under Lestrade’s instruction, the crew laid a bed of snow about sixteen inches deep on the upper deck, over which a macadamized covering of sand and gravel was spread, and an embankment of snow about eight feet was built around the ship; both of which contribute greatly to maintain warmth in the interior. Ventilation consists of copper tubes from ten to sixteen inches in diameter, passing through the deck, from the top of which canvas funnels are attached, and conducted through the housing cloth to the open air, to the height of about fifteen feet. These promote a good draught and the free escape of the foul air generated below, as is evidenced in the dense volume of vapour which ever issues from their tops. By this means and from the fact of the men being kept off the lower deck for so many hours of the day, the air between decks is rendered much more salubrious and conducive to health and comfort, than it would otherwise be. Stamford has declared himself satisfied with the quality of the air below deck. Fires have been lighted, including a Sylvester's stove for the general warmth of the ship, a small stove in the Sick Bay, in which seven pounds of coals are daily consumed; one in the mess-room, where from eight to twelve pounds of coals are burned, and one in the captain's cabin, for which six pounds are daily issued—in addition to which there is the galley fire on the lower deck for cooking throughout the day. The value of fuel in the Arctic regions cannot be overestimated.

* * * * *

_15 November 1850  
Naturalist’s Log_

The agency of gunpowder in blasting ice having been hitherto unknown, and untried in ice navigation, I have today made several experiments with regard to the necessary ratio of gunpowder to size and density of ice in order to result in the helpful and safe clearing of obstacles. The crew was much interested in my little trials. These were attended with success, and afforded pleasing evidence of the powerful auxiliary we have at command for future operations. I have not yet seen Captain Watson, but I will inform him of my findings at the first opportunity.

To my great surprise, several of the crew came out on the ice to observe the experiments, and stayed with me even when the wind picked up and the temperature fell in the late hours of the afternoon. Sully Donovan was there, watching keenly and even asking an occasional question, although his usual companion Anderson was, predictably, absent. So intent was Donovan on the results of the experiment that I warmed to him, and thought to warn him that his infatuation with Anderson was not truly reciprocated, and thus their daily trysts are hardly worth his time. Really, he should have been pleased – he can do much better for companionship than that insipid clod. Ah well. By now I am quite used to his disapprobation. The loss is his, for he stormed back to the ship and missed a most satisfactory explosion of ice not ten minutes later.

* * * * *

_17 November 1850  
Ship’s Log_

At an early hour the sledge with provisions and other requisites for seven men for a fortnight was packed in readiness, but as the state of the ice did not admit of its safe transit for a distance of a couple of miles from the ship, the entire strength of the ship's company was employed for carrying the articles separately over this space. Accordingly at 7 a.m. all hands were assembled on the ice, and on the word of command, started towards land each carrying as much of the equipment as he could. The party presented a strange and novel appearance as they wended their way over the ice, following the course pointed out by the pioneers, until the rough ice was safely crossed at 8 a.m., when we halted and repacked the sledge and sent the party on its way. Under Lestrade’s command, the party consists of Wynniatt, Court, Wilcox, Milner, Anderson, and Holmes. Their mission is exploratory: to become familiar with the local lay of the land, to scout for any Equimeaux encampments and initiate friendly relations, and to bring back whatever fresh meat they are able to kill. We wish them Godspeed.

* * * * *

_17 November 1850  
Captain’s Log _

Lestrade is correct, and I know it. He _should_ lead the first party out, and I _should_ see to winter preparations aboard ship. Should and will. I was wrong to suggest otherwise, and good on him for holding me to my place.

Christ. To sit and wait at home like a woman – it is intolerable.

* * * * *

_22 November 1850  
Ship’s Log_

We who await the return of the scouting party pass the time in various employments. Our first order of business was to form an ice road between the ship and the mainland by first levelling the ice, and then marking the path with poles, as guides. When the party does return, they will have a much easier time of it than they did on departure.

John Caulder and young Greaves have undertaken to turn our current stores of frozen meat into pemmican, upon the supposition that frozen meat may be ground up as easily as the more usual method of drying it, and it will require less fuel to cook, as well. Their method is to grind the frozen meat in a malt-mill, and then cook it dry over a low heat; next to mix it with nearly an equal weight of melted beef suet or lard and a small amount of oats. The result could not be called delicious, but it is sustaining.

* * * * *

_27 November 1850  
Ship’s Log_

The travelers returned to the ship at approximately 20:00 this evening.

First Mate Lestrade’s report:

_In the ten days of our little expedition, we made a circuit of the land surrounding the ship to a radius of approximately 70 miles. In that area, we found no evidence of Esquimeaux inhabitation, or any other signs of human life. Hunting was similarly sparse, although we bagged several dozen small hare over the course of the journey, which we gutted and brought back._

_Our days began at 07:30, having previously taken what was denominated breakfast — some pemmican and a little cocoa mixed with tepid water (the fuel, spirits of wine, not being sufficient to boil it). At 13:00 we would halt, take some biscuit and grog, and then at about 17:30 encamp. This became a difficulty, from the fact of the buffalo robes, blanket sleeping bags, and tarpaulin, being so hard and frozen that on pitching the tent they could not be spread, and thawing could be produced only by the entire party lying on, and imparting to them that warmth from our bodies which we sorely needed. Sleep was disturbed, and rendered but little refreshing, by the cold produced by our half frozen garments, at a temperature varying from seven to fifteen degrees below zero. The small consumption of food during the journey was quite wonderful; it amounted only to eighteen pounds of pemmican, thirty-one pounds of biscuit, and eight pounds of oatmeal; and instead of there being a decrease of weight from this consumption, the contents of the sledge upon return actually weighed one hundred pounds more than when we started, from the accumulation of ice on the blankets, tents, coverings, &c., caused by the vapour emanating from our bodies, being rapidly converted into frost, and deposited on everything around. The want of water was most severely felt, as melting the ice generally entailed loss of time; and the quantity of fuel taken proving much too small; the water was consequently limited. _

_We returned to ship with no casualties to report, and only minor injuries of the sort related to the extreme temperatures we endured._

_A rough chart of the area explored is appended._

* * * * *

_28 November 1850  
Naturalist’s Log_

I can affirm that geologizing at a temperature from 15 to 20 degrees below zero is not the most agreeable occupation. It was vital to collect ice and snow samples from various depths, however – absolutely vital – not to mention the ground covering and rock, when I could reach it. The repeated exposure of my hands to the elements caused them to become frost-bitten. My right hand was so severely bitten, and the mischief spread with so much rapidity that on reaching the ship, it was a stiff, frozen mass. I had not the slightest ability to bend it, and on plunging it into a basin of cold water, a thin film of ice formed on the surface. Stamford is apprehensive of its safety – unduly, I believe. Still, I confess it is not pleasant to be forced to rely on my left hand, and the pain in my right is not insignificant. It has taken me over an hour to write this brief entry.

* * * * *

_29 November 1850  
Captain’s Log_

On the 28 of November, the sun took his departure. The day was beautifully clear and serene, one of the few fine days we have lately had. There was scarcely a breath of wind, and the temperature fell to 2 below zero. When the last glimpse of the sun was revealed to us, his rays were most truthfully reflected on the western sky, from whence, shedding their prismatic tints on the land beneath, he imparted an appearance of rare beauty to the scene, where stillness and solitude alone prevailed. Thus commenced the long Polar night of dreariness and gloom.

Everything now wears a truly wintry aspect; snow falls in considerable quantities, and nothing but a uniform white surface meets the eye wherever it wanders. The ship is completely embedded in it, and appears as if she could never move again. A death-like stillness reigns around, in which it is startling in the extreme to hear even the sound of a voice or the tread of a footstep, on the frozen surface of the snow. I do enjoy the silence. The slightest incident is gladly seized on as a subject of conversation and comment; and thankful do we feel for the agreeable excitement afforded by the occasional visit of a pair of ravens, the capture of a fox, the pale bright light of the moon, the brilliant splendour of the Aurora, the constant presence of stars, or the meteoric flash of aerolites.

* * * * *

_10 December 1850  
Naturalist’s Log_

We are visited almost daily now by two ravens ( _Corvus corax_ )—it is my fancy that they are the same two ravens we met before. Although they are the most widely distributed of all corvids, I was surprised to see them this far north. I watch them cross the Strait from west to east, and return again in a few hours, always together. They say that ravens mate for life, but the claim is likely nothing but romantic twaddle. Certainly, it is unsubstantiated. The cold must suit them, for they appear to be as glossy and fine as ever. I wish I could say it suits me as well, and strive to inure myself to it, but it is very harsh.

* * * * *

_17 December 1850  
Ship’s Log_

It is surprising with what readiness men accommodate themselves to a mode of life, strange and novel to the majority of them. The great author of invention never fails. It is astonishing to witness the number of tradesmen that are to be seen at night, on our lower deck, all actively engaged at their respective pursuits; tailors, bootmakers, and knitters: a great variety of needlework. In fact, anything that a needle is capable of doing is, at least, attempted; and it is no less laudable than strange to observe the progress which ingenuity and industry enable them to make, and the degree of perfection which they ultimately attain, as they are all self-taught. Nor are reading and improvement of the mind generally forgotten; for while thus engaged at work in groups, they generally have the best scholar as they call him engaged in reading to them aloud. Thus are the evenings passed, the day being occupied in exercise, and the light duties they are occasionally called on to perform.

* * * * *

_20 December 1850  
Surgeon’s Log_

Holmes’s frostbitten hand is largely healed. He was unexpectedly tractable in following my instructions for care, and the result has been a smooth and speedy recovery.

The first case of scurvy has been placed on the sick list, attended with great debility; others may soon follow, although I suspect the sufferer (Milner) is unusually susceptible, for our ration of lime, though low, has not yet run dry. I have doubled his allowance, and expect him to recover at least partially. From this time, it is likely that the disease will become more generally manifest, associated with debility and rheumatism in various forms.

The men handle the extreme conditions with surprising ease and there have been fewer cases of frostbite than I anticipated, and no fights or other signs of snow madness. I observe that several men have formed certain understandings between themselves. Despite formal naval prohibitions, I see no harm in it, nor apparently does the captain, as long as it does not disrupt the harmonious running of the ship. “This is a private enterprise,” is all he will say -- and so it is. Indeed, in these frigid days and worse nights, one cannot begrudge anyone a modicum of human warmth.

* * * * *

_Innugati addresses the women of Kangiqtugaapik_

The qallunaat have no women. Sisters, answer me: why do they have no women? Why do they have no children? They say their women and children are in a far-off land, over the ice and the sea, so many days’ journey that no Inuit have ever been there. Are there places no Inuit has ever gone? Sisters, answer me: can this be so?

Men without women are not men. Tukisiviit? They are forsaken by Pukkeenegak. They are something bad, something dangerous.  

If they have never had women, never made children, they are not human. If there were women, but now they are gone – what has happened to them? Sisters, answer me: what can have happened to them? 

* * * * *

_21 December 1850  
Ship’s Log_

The winter solstice, at last. One half of the season of darkness has passed, and we can now look forward to the return of the sun. These days of darkness are very strange, and feel only half-real.

* * * * *

_25 December 1850  
Ship’s Log_

We cheerfully welcome Christmas Day, even in this most inhospitable location, and make our best efforts to mark it with as much enjoyment as circumstances, and our own resources, can admit of. The men lit up the ship with candles and lanterns, and arranged the mess tables in a long line, that they might all sit together and sing songs, and tell stories of past years. They were made merrier by several bottles of excellent whiskey provided by the First Mate as a Christmas gift to the crew. Caulder ransacked the larders for the choicest dainties; and, amongst the rarities produced, were beef six months old, which has been nearly all that period frozen, and a sirloin of musk ox, which would have ornamented any table in a more temperate clime. He had stowed two large puddings aboard, as well, and so our meal ended in a most suitable fashion, and we were all warmer and fuller and cheerier than we had been for many a long month.

* * * * *

_25 December 1850  
Captain’s Log_

I did not, myself, partake in the dinner, thinking that the men would prefer a celebration free from the presence of their commanding officer, but managed to swipe a bottle of Lestrade’s good whiskey and hide myself away beside the warm stove in the otherwise abandoned sick bay. All told, it is not a bad way to pass an evening. I lit a candle and opened my book.

An hour or two in, and there was a rap on the door. It was Holmes. Of course it was Holmes, for truly there is no escape from confusion or aggravation or temptation, and life must never be simple.

“I did not see you at dinner, Captain.” He looked so small in that moment, and so alone, that I held out the bottle as an offering of peace. I have no wish to hurt the man; my atrocious temper is no fault of his, nor are the thoughts in my corrupt mind.

He looked surprised, but came and sat beside me.

“Go on,” I said, and he raised the bottle. I have never seen him drink before.

We sat in silence and passed the bottle between us, and the whole time I wrestled with myself. When I looked at him, his cheeks were lovely and pink, and his eyes were closed as he again tipped the bottle to his lips. It has been so long.

I am reprehensible, and I know it. Drunk and reckless and stupid. I have no business involving anyone else in my disastrous life. But still his eyes were closed and he was so beautiful, all ivory and tangled curls, and – I forgot myself.

I leaned forward and pressed my mouth to his. _God_! It was –.

I shall never forget how his eyes flew open. He reared back in such alarm; all I saw in his eyes was shock.

I have read all through the lens of my own sick desire, and I have been so wrong.

I muttered some apology and rose; he tried to stand, and staggered back drunkenly – Christ, he was nearly insensible with drink, and I had almost –. He could hardly focus his eyes. 

He was reaching for me, then, trying to speak, but I thrust him back down and went to the passageway to call for Lestrade, who came over from the mess laughing and happy, and was easily prevailed upon to get the “over-merry Holmes” to his bunk.

Thank God for Lestrade. I know, I _know_ that I am not a good man, but he unquestioningly assumes the best in me and reminds me that I can still strive to be better.

* * * * *

_26 December  
Ship’s Naturalist’s Log_

God damn me for a fool. Worse than a fool. Ah, my head aches so; I cannot think! This is why I do not drink.

Why will the man not _talk_ to me?

* * * * *

_31 December, 1850  
Ship’s Log_

The weather throughout the entire of this dark and frigid December have ranged from 3° to 39° below zero, with a mean of  23° 36', that of the lower deck 48° 4', and the force of wind  2.48.

The last hours of this eventful year close on us, presenting a picture of wildness it is difficult to conceive. A heavy, north-westerly gale and dense snow-drift confine us to the ship ; and thankful are we for such comfortable shelter from the pitiless blast that sweeps over us — to which we could not for an instant expose ourselves with safety.

It is a strange thing indeed, we few dozen men hunkered down in a frozen ship, all alone in this wild and savage land.

* * * * *

_Inuit saying, often repeated:_

The only thing we know with any certainty is that whatever is meant to happen will happen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This week, your humble author ventures out into the wilderness of Upper Canada for what her family unironically refers to as a "vacation." She prays that you will excuse any small delay in next week's publication schedule, as she will be without the usual trappings of civilization for an almost unbearable length of time (several days!). Please do rest assured that she will be scribbling faithfully -- through swarms of blackflies, freezing lakes, and scorching sun -- and will return to you posthaste. 
> 
> XOXOXOXO
> 
> UPDATE! There is... no update this week (7/24/2016). However! Please enjoy this little treat instead: http://doctornerdington.tumblr.com/post/147896827673/regarding-a-land-so-wild-and-savage


	6. January – April 1851

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We tell ourselves stories to survive the darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that this chapter contains an account of an Inuit myth that could be triggering for some readers. See end note for details if this is a concern for you. 
> 
> HUGE thanks to my beta, redscudery, for her extremely helpful and perceptive comments. This story is so much better because of her. <3

_4 January 1851_  
_Naturalist’s Log_

He will not speak to me, or be alone with me, and when I knock at his door late at night, as I used to do, he does not answer.

* * * * *

_6 January 1851  
Ship’s Surgeon’s Log_

The good captain and our intrepid naturalist are on the outs again, and more fool them. One day they are inseparable, each looking at the other as if he’d hung the moon, and the next they won’t so much as speak a civil word to each other. Lord only knows what goes on between them, but any idiot can see they are quite miserable. I’m tempted to exercise my medical authority and knock their heads together.

* * * * *

_7 January 1851  
Captain’s Log _

Is it not enough to ensure his survival? Is it not enough to lead a crew of thirty men through fearful and extreme conditions? Must I also endure his imploring and reproachful gaze? Must I be tormented by ghosts and living spectres both?

I fear what I might do, left alone with the man. I know better, now, than to trust myself. For – and this is surely the most base aspect of my confession – I cannot regret any of my actions, and given similar circumstances, I would still do the same. And I need him. For success in this mission, I need his brilliant mind to guide me. I cannot risk the lives of so many who may be depending upon us.  
  
* * * * *

_Naturalist’s Log  
11 January 1851_

I look out for the ravens every day, and most days I espy them. In the past I would have scoffed, but that was before I had experienced the endless night of the frozen north. One begins to feel that all life is unnatural here; that the ice and snow reign supreme and will inevitably conquer all. But the ravens have learned, over countless years, countless generations, how to bear the yoke of life regardless of circumstance. Admirable creatures.

In the dark, I have dispensed with the concept of night and day. Many of the men have begun to sleep rather more than they ought, but I find the opposite: I am able to continue with my work without the unnecessary interruptions which so plague me in England. After all, it is the work that matters – that is why I am here.

 _That_ is why I am here.

* * * * *

_13 January 1851  
Ship’s Log_

This evening, when all was still about the ship, a large bear was observed slowly coming up from the south, and stopped at about 180 yards: at this distance, he took up a position, gazing intently on the ship, and eagerly sniffing the air. We waited for a few minutes in hope of his approaching nearer; but possibly suspecting our intentions, he proceeded on his course. One of us fired, and it was thought, wounded him, as he fell on his knees, and staggered a little. He again started at a brisk pace, pursued by Lestrade and a few others. Donovan, our quartermaster, fired and wounded him in the hind-quarters without arresting his progress. Not having time to reload, Donovan pursued him with the bayonet, having taken the precaution of fixing one to his gun in the event of coming to close quarters; but, after a fruitless chase, the bear eventually disappeared into the snow. He was a noble-looking animal, the largest we have yet seen; and we consequently regretted his escape.  
  
* * * * *

_18 January 1851  
Ship’s Log_

Yesterday, the first reindeer fell to our guns. It weighed sixty-seven pounds, but in its poor condition contrasted in a marked degree with those shot at the commencement of winter, as there was scarcely a vestige of fat anywhere to be seen. Today, the second fell, in the same condition as the first, and affording us a total of one hundred and two pounds of meat. Hunting is now our only sport and entertainment, and it is pursued with vigour by many of the men.  
  
* * * * *

29 January 1851  
  
To the House of Lords  
Session 1851A  
THE PETITION OF The Sheffield Female Political Association  
Presented by Lord Howard of Essex

We, the petitioners of the Sheffield Female Political Association, on behalf of all the women of Britain, assert that:

  1. Under whatever conditions, and within whatever limits, men are admitted to the suffrage, there is not a shadow of justification for not admitting women under the same.
  2. The legal subordination of one sex to another is wrong in itself, and now one of the chief hindrances to human improvement; and that it ought to be replaced by a system of perfect equality, admitting no power and privilege on the one side, nor disability on the other.



Signatories appended.  
  
* * * * *

_2 February 1851  
Ship’s Log_

No day comes without seeing some of us on the hills – at least, when the conditions are such that we can possibly venture out – and no week passes without some addition being made to our stock. This is as good for crew morale as it is for our provisions, and both Caulder and Stamford are pleased, as this is a dangerous season for both.

* * * * *

_4 February 1851  
Naturalist’s Log_

The entire of the past month was remarkable for its cold, boisterous character; there were but few days that the wind did not blow with the force of a gale, at some period of its 24 hours. The south-west and north-west winds prevailed; light snow fell on two occasions; the mean temperature was -47 degrees and force of wind 3.4. I work, as best I can, on analysis of samples taken from the hunters’ fresh kills, but in this cold, any progress is painful and slow. It wears on one. There is little, now, with which to stimulate my mind, which begins to circle in on itself. In the dark and cold, _I_ grow dark and cold and intolerably maudlin.

Today I looked out at the usual time, and only one raven flew out over the ship. I had begun to suspect that the legend is true, and ravens _do_ mate for life, but it seems I was too hasty. Not surprising. Such fidelity is as unusual in the animal kingdom as it is in the human world.

* * * * *

_10 February 1851  
Naturalist’s Log _

Yesterday, when taking some exercise on the ice road, I discovered the wing-feathers of my missing raven friend, who has, no doubt, become the prey of a fox. And so I cannot draw any conclusion, for only death separated this pair. What do they do when their mate dies? Will my friend find a new mate, or is he now alone in the world? My mind spins baseless theories. What I would not give for my library.  
  
* * * * *

_Told by Yura, the beautiful, at Kugluktuk in the dark season_

There was a raven who wanted to marry two beautiful geese. They protested, saying that he would not be able to keep up with them on their long flights across the ocean, but he was persistent and the geese finally agreed to the marriage. On their next migration, the devoted raven accompanied the two geese. After a few hours of flying, however, he grew tired. The geese rested on the water, but since the raven was unable to swim, he begged the geese to support him between their wings. The geese carried him along good-naturedly for a while, but soon grew exhausted under his weight. Suddenly they let go of his body, and he plunged headlong into the sea and was drowned. There he was transformed into a little black mollusk, the pteropod, which flaps along underwater and is known as tulugarnaq, the little sea raven who reflects his sky brothers.

Sisters and brothers, you think the dark will last forever, but I have chewed off part of it. Who else will take a bite?  
  
* * * * *  
  
_11 February 1851  
Captain’s Log_

A strange restlessness has begun to infect the crew – an inevitable consequence, I believe, of living so long in the cold and dark. It is not natural for men to endure such monotony. Today, I brought out my copy of Mr. Dicken’s latest, and Thompson, the gunner, began to read aloud from the beginning. Most of us have already read the first chapters, but it was well to hear it again:

_Whether I shall turn out to be the hero of my own life, or whether that station will be held by anybody else, these pages must show. To begin my life with the beginning of my life, I record that I was born (as I have been informed and believe) on a Friday, at twelve o'clock at night. It was remarked that the clock began to strike, and I began to cry, simultaneously._

_In consideration of the day and hour of my birth, it was declared by the nurse, and by some sage women in the neighbourhood who had taken a lively interest in me several months before there was any possibility of our becoming personally acquainted, first, that I was destined to be unlucky in life; and secondly, that I was privileged to see ghosts and spirits; both these gifts inevitably attaching, as they believed, to all unlucky infants of either gender, born towards the small hours on a Friday night._

_I need say nothing here, on the first head, because nothing can show better than my history whether that prediction was verified or falsified by the result. On the second branch of the question, I will only remark, that unless I ran through that part of my inheritance while I was still a baby, I have not come into it yet. But I do not at all complain of having been kept out of this property; and if anybody else should be in the present enjoyment of it, he is heartily welcome to keep it._

For almost two hours, the men were rapt. We shall continue with daily readings.  
  
* * * * *  
  
_14 February 1851  
Ship’s Surgeon’s Log_

As the winter progresses, tension builds aboard ship. I had anticipated the cold and dark would have a soporific effect upon the men, and indeed it does, for some. For others, however, the dull boredom of the days begins to eat at them, and they grow wild with it. I send these out on the ice as often as is practicable, ostensibly to hunt by really to work off their energies in a productive fashion.

The captain maintains careful discipline aboard ship, requiring absolute obedience of action while allowing for healthy freedom of mind. I cannot discern whether he himself grows sleepy or wild, but he spends much time alone, endlessly pacing in his cabin. His eyes, when he emerges, are haunted.

I am, myself, quite drowsy at all times in the half-life of this strange, strange darkness. 

* * * * *  
  
16 February 1851  
Naturalist’s Log

Strong northerly winds, with a hazy atmosphere and light snow; the temperature today rose to 27 degrees below zero, and the barometers fell lower than we have previously known them – entirely at variance with the influence usually exercised by northerly winds. Life is utterly devoid of interest.

* * * * *

_17 February 1851  
Captain’s Log_

Today Kennedy discovered an old _Blackwood’s_ that somehow found its way into our stores; felicitous discovery, for we have pored over all our books and magazines again and again, until we have nearly memorized them all.

Kennedy found an interesting bit of history, and read it aloud to the men in mess. Holmes was not there – for Holmes is _never_ there – but it made me think of him. How interesting he would find it! I must commit it to memory, although I cannot say when I might have the opportunity to relay it.

_The building of a ship to navigate beneath the surface of the sea dates back not much less than 300 years, to a time when the practical realization of the idea might seem impossible. For how build such a ship out of timber? And how to propel it? Again, how to dwell within it when death from suffocation must so very soon put an end to the voyage? It might appear as if there were no escape from these difficulties. And yet, in spite of all, the idea was made a reality by the genius of one forgotten man._

_Cornelius Drebbel is credited with actually making and working a submarine early in the seventeenth century. Drebbel was taken into favour by James the First and given residence in return for the many inventions presented to the King by the young man, and Drebbel enjoyed among his contemporaries a wide reputation for scientific attainments._

_The precise date of Drebbel’s invention of a submarine boat is not forthcoming from surviving references to the subject. But we appear safe in concluding that it was between the years 1612 and 1623. We know little about the details of Drebbel’s submarine boat, but it is recorded that, in the boat, one could row and navigate under water, from Westminster to Greenwich, the distance of two miles, even five or six miles, or as far as one pleased. In the boat a person could see under the surface of the water._

I should dearly love to see what Holmes would make of this information, and what application he could make of it in the Arctic.

* * * * *

_Naturalist’s Log  
23 February 1851_

I sink. The feeling is not unfamiliar, not unexpected.

I have a small reserve of my solution: insurance against the worst of it. I think on it more than I should. I fear to take it, though, for once that is gone, there shall be no relief at all for me.  

* * * * *

_Told by Nuniq, who thinks deeply, at Kugluktuk in the dark season_

Lumak, a blind boy, lived with his mother and sister and their dog, Ukirk. One day, a polar bear appeared outside the window of their igloo. Lumak’s mother handed the boy an arrow and led him to the window (which was now a hole as the ice pane had fallen out) and told him to kill the bear. Lumak shot the bear with his arrow. The bear let out a growl before wandering off to die. The mother turned to Lumak and said, “You have killed Ukirk, you killed the dog.” But Lumak knew he had killed the bear because he had heard it growl. The mother and sister left Lumak in the igloo and went to build a new igloo closer to where the bear had died. The mother sent the sister back with a bit of meat for Lumak but told her to say that it was dog meat. When Lumak ate the meat he knew it was polar bear meat but he said nothing. Every few days the sister brought meat for Lumak and each time the mother said to tell him it was dog meat.

As time passed, the old igloo began to collapse around Lumak where he sat alone and hungry. One day a loon appeared and asked Lumak to come with him to the water. Once there, the loon told Lumak to hold onto him when he dove down into the water and not to move until he was out of air. Lumak did as the loon asked. The loon dove down into the water and swam for a long time. Just when Lumak was out of air, the loon surfaced. The loon proceeded to dive down two more times, surfacing only when Lumak was out of air. When they surfaced after a third time, Lumak had regained his sight.

When Lumak returned to where his mother and sister lived, he pretended that he was still blind. He suggested that if his mother helped, he could catch a whale. When they got to the shore, Lumak prepared his harpoon and his line. He told his mother to tie the line around her waist so that when he harpooned a whale, she could help pull it in. She did as he asked. Even though Lumak’s mother kept yelling at Lumak each time she saw a small whale, Lumak waited. Finally, when Lumak saw a large whale, he shot his harpoon with all his might. But rather than help his mother pull the line, Lumak stood back and let the whale pull her into the sea. This is the end of the story.

Sisters and brothers, you think the dark will last forever, but I have chewed off part of it. Who else will take a bite?

* * * * *

_Captain’s Log  
28 February 1851_

The endless night has turned to merely a _nearly_ -endless night, with heady glimpses of the beginnings of dawn. The sun has not yet made an appearance, but each day she toys with us, and each day we see more of her blush at the edges of the sky. The smallest glimmer of light – how it kindles something in the blood! How it moves one. The old Arctic hands shrug and return to their card games, while we novices pace the deck with nervous avidity.  

The reading of _David Copperfield_ has progressed, and we are all engrossed in the last volume that was issued before we departed England. What an excellent reminder it is of the civilization we left behind us when we quit that country:

_Agnes looked so quiet and good, and reminded me so strongly of my airy fresh school days at Canterbury, and the sodden, smoky, stupid wretch I had been the other night, that, nobody being by, I yielded to my self-reproach and shame, and—in short, made a fool of myself. I cannot deny that I shed tears. To this hour I am undecided whether it was upon the whole the wisest thing I could have done, or the most ridiculous._

_“If it had been any one but you, Agnes,” said I turning away my head, “I should not have minded it half so much. But that it should have been you who saw me! I almost wish I had been dead, first.”_

_She put her hand—its touch was like no other hand—upon my arm for a moment; and I felt so befriended and comforted, that I could not help moving it to my lips, and gratefully kissing it._

_“Sit down,” said Agnes, cheerfully. “Don’t be unhappy, Trotwood. If you cannot confidently trust me, whom will you trust?”_

_"Ah, Agnes!” I returned. “You are my good Angel!”_

_She smiled rather sadly, I thought, and shook her head._

_“Yes, Agnes, my good Angel! Always my good Angel!”_

_"If I were, indeed, Trotwood,” she returned, “there is one thing that I should set my heart on very much.”_

_I looked at her inquiringly; but already with a foreknowledge of her meaning._

_"On warning you,” said Agnes, with a steady glance, “against your bad Angel.”_

_There was always something in her modest voice that seemed to touch a chord within me, answering to that sound alone. It was always earnest; but when it was very earnest, as it was now, there was a thrill in it that quite subdued me. I sat looking at her as she cast her eyes down on her work._

Much entertainment is now to be had in imagining the events of the novel to come. It is generally felt that Mr. Dickens would not end the novel on a wholly desolate note, but would allow for some measure of goodness and hope to manifest. The good Angel will surely triumph. As for myself, I cannot say. Dickens’ fidelity to life is such that I cannot, myself, expect a happy ending.

* * * * *

1 March 1851

Miss Janine Hawkins  
The Sheffield Female Political Association  
37 Upper Hannover Street, Sheffield

My dear girl,

You really must learn to master your temper if you expect to make any political progress on this or any other issue. Letters like your last will do you and your organization more harm than good, and I have thrown it in the fire for both our sakes.

What on Earth did you expect to come of the petition? Revolution? Over night? I did not think you to be so naive.

You have had a beautiful victory, and you must learn to enjoy the small wins for what they are. Britain shall not be changed in a day, or even in a decade. _Patience_ is what is required, patience and an unwavering belief in the small, incremental changes that shall one day culminate in true universal suffrage. _That_ is the way our country works. Your anger and impatience only push your cause to the fringes of acceptable society – and that is very poor strategy indeed.   

Please believe that I wish you all success in your future endeavours.

Sincerely,

Lord Howard of Essex  
Parliament Square  
London SW1

* * * * *

_Ship’s Surgeon’s Log  
2 March 1851_

In my monthly inspection of the crew, I have observed, for the first time, a loss of flesh and strength in some; a result I was fully prepared to expect, after being four months on a reduced allowance of food, and subject to the rigour of the coldest part of the year. This is a dangerous time, as ostensibly healthy men, when weakened by circumstance, may fall prey to pneumonia, underlying tubercular tendencies, and coronary irregularities. I must be vigorous in my surveillance, and keep particular attention on Sugden, Hulott, Stone, and May. Archie Greaves is well enough; I give the boy extra rations, for he is young and growing. Current sick list appended.

I am concerned for Mr. Holmes, who rarely takes his rations and appears more gaunt and pale than ever. He claims to be fully occupied in his work, but when I ask has no new findings to tell me. He always took great pleasure in demonstrating my ignorance, previously.  

* * * * *

_Told by Qimmiabruk, the little dog, at Kugluktuk in the dark season:_

There was once a man who had a giant dog; it could swim in the sea, and was so big that it could drag whales and narwhals to land. The man who owned it cut holes in its jaws and fastened thongs to the holes, so he could sit on his back and ride it, and pull at these thongs when he wanted it to turn. The man had long wished for a son, but as he could not get one, he gave his dog the amulet that the child should have had. It was a knot of wood from a tree, and it was to make the dog hard against death.

Then one day the dog ate a person, so the man had to go away and settle down elsewhere. One day while he was living in that place a kayak came in sight a long way off, and the man had to make haste and hide his dog, so that it should not eat the stranger. He led it a long way up in the hills, and gave it a large bone that it could gnaw and amuse itself with. But the dog smelt the stranger, all the same, and came down from the hills; and its master then had to hide the man and his kayak far away, so that the dog should not tear them to pieces; so dangerous was it.

Though the master took great pains to hide the dog, nonetheless it made many enemies, and one day there came a strange man in a sledge with three dogs as large as bears, to kill the giant dog. The man went to meet the sledge with the dog after him. At first the dog pretended to be afraid, and only when the strange dogs lunged for it did it fling itself upon them and bite through the skulls of all three.

Eventually the man noticed that the giant dog used to disappear occasionally on long excursions inland, and sometimes it came back with the leg of an inland-dweller. Then he understood that it attacked the inland-dwellers, and brought its master their legs. That they were the legs of inland-dwellers he could tell by their having boots on with long hairs.

From this giant dog dates the great terror that the inland-dwellers have of dogs. It always used to show itself suddenly in the opening of the window and haul them out. But it was a very good thing for the inland-dwellers to get a little fright sometimes, for they were themselves very much given to carrying off people who were alone, especially women who had lost their way in the fog.

Sisters and brothers, you think the dark will last forever, but I have chewed off part of it. Who else will take a bite?

* * * * *

_Ship’s Surgeon’s Log  
9 March 1851_

Our little expedition has no chaplain, but on Sundays, our very devout mate Robert Wynniatt holds small services, simple Bible readings and a hymn or two. Most men do not attend, but during the darkness, more have been drawn – as a form of entertainment, if nothing else. I go myself, as it is helpful in keeping to some kind of regular schedule. Today’s reading was from Second Peter; exceptionally appropriate in this time of not-quite-dark and not-quite-light, and a helpful reminder for us all.

_Add to your faith virtue; and to virtue knowledge; and to knowledge temperance; and to temperance patience; and to patience godliness;and to godliness brotherly kindness; and to brotherly kindness charity.For if these things be in you, and abound, they make you that ye shall neither be barren nor unfruitful in the knowledge of our Lord Jesus Christ. But he that lacketh these things is blind, and cannot see afar off, and hath forgotten that he was purged from his old sins. Wherefore the rather, brethren, give diligence to make your calling and election sure: for if ye do these things, ye shall never fall, for so an entrance shall be ministered unto you abundantly into the everlasting kingdom of our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ._

* * * * *

_Captain’s Log  
9 March 1851_

“Add to your faith virtue,” the Good Book counsels. And if one has no faith? I often suspect that virtue is nothing more than the effective masking of the beast that sleeps within us all.

* * * * *

_Told by Uki, the survivor, at Kugluktuk in the dark season:_

Remember the story of the moon and the sun: the man who lay with his sister. What I have heard is that the brother became the moon and the sister became the sun. One year, the sister did not attend the qaggiq with the rest of the people. She stayed at her own hearth, and whenever she was all alone someone would rush in and blow out the flames so it became dark, and someone would lie with her at that moment. She never found out who it was, so when he did it again to her she felt around in the dark, hoping to get her hand on the cooking pot as there was soot on it. When her hand got covered in soot she made a mark on the man, and when he finished she followed him back to the qaggiq. When the man entered, she saw in the light that it was her brother. At once she went into the qaggiq and, taking up the great hunting knife, cut off her breast and offered it to her brother saying: “if you would take me, take all of me. If one part of me is worthy, _all_ of me is worthy.” Of course the brother did not eat what was offered to him by his sister. He scooped up some of the fire with an ulu and ran outdoors; his sister likewise scooped up a flame and ran after him, her breast in her hand, outstretched in fierce offering. They started to go round and round the qaggiq with the sister ahead of the brother with a flame in hand. The flame from the brother went out so that it was now only smolder while the flames on the sister kept burning so this was the way she became the sun while the brother became the moon.

Sisters and brothers, you think the dark will last forever, but I have chewed off part of it. Who else will take a bite?  
  
* * * * *

10 March 1851

The Sheffield Female Political Association  
Miss Janine Hawkins, Secretary  
37 Upper Hannover Street, Sheffield

Janine,

Thank you for sharing Lord Howard’s detestable letter. Damn the man! Does he imagine we are unaware of the way this country functions? We work and we work, and in the end, nothing changes. Or perhaps it does, but deathly slowly, and Janine, I cannot endure it.  He bids us to wait. To _wait_. I am _done_ with waiting for men to decide my fate. And yet, what choice have I – have we?

I strive to tell myself stories in these dark times, stories to deploy against despair: perseverance in the face of injustice, victory against insurmountable odds. And all that comes to mind is Clarissa Harlowe, is Tess of the D’Urbervilles, is Cathy Earnshaw. Stories of women punished for the supreme crime of acting as though they are fully human. Stories of men who would gladly take our bodies and steal our labour, men who would consume us, and leave aside the parts that are not palatable or beneficial to them, not knowing (or not caring!) that such a division is nothing less than spiritual _death_ for us.  

What we need now is deeds, not words. We need action, not stories.

I do not accept the need for change to be incremental. I do not accept this fate for our daughters, and I do not accept it for ourselves.

I am sorry that my letter is so bilious, but I cannot find it in me to smile now, to be the good angel Lord Howard expects. I feel sometimes that I will strangle on my own bitterness.

Most sincerely,

Mary

* * * * *

14  March 1851

Mrs. Mary Watson  
23 Little Eastcheap Street  
London

My dear, dear Mary.

I have sat over this letter for several long hours, and written many pages which I have then destroyed. I fear for you. You are not made for stagnation. You are not patient. You are the ever-moving ocean, not the staid and placid shore, and I fear you will do yourself harm in throwing yourself ceaselessly against the uncaring rocks. I love you far too well to allow this.

The Association has received a letter from Jeanne Deroin, who, along with Pauline Somebody, edits _La Femme Libre_ which has found itself subject to constant bureaucratic harassment – most recently, the government has required a 5,000 franc security bond, which they are of course unable to raise. In my opinion, it is highly unlikely that Jeanne – whom I met last year in Paris – will be able to raise such an outlandish figure, and equally unlikely that she will cease publication, regardless of the consequences.

In short, our French sisters could use some of your passion, Mary. It might be well for you to go. Terrible doctors are always recommending changes of air, are they not? Well, now. I prescribe one for you. Go, won’t you? Send my love to Jeanne. Discover Pauline’s mysterious surname. Keep them out of gaol, if you can. Perhaps we English ladies can learn from their tactics and experiences.

All my love,

J

* * * * *

_Ship’s Log  
26 March 1851_

And so has disaster struck. Not the event so long dreaded: all is well with the ship, and we have no news of Sholto – but a new disaster, more terrible for being so stupidly unforeseen and eminently preventable. Naturalist Holmes has gone missing from the ship. It is surmised that he has undertaken a grievously misjudged expedition from the ship, telling no one aboard, and that he has lost his way or some other disaster has befallen him, rendering him somehow incapable of returning. We have reason to believe he is not well.

We have taken inventory of his quarters, and ascertained that his cold-weather garb is gone. We know, then, that he is at least minimally dressed for the conditions.

He has been absent 7 hours, and we are much alarmed. Immediately upon discovery of his absence, a mortar was fired, and rockets subsequently, at quarter-hour intervals, but without any apparent recognition. We now prepare three search parties, each supplied with rockets, blue lights, emergency tents, and refreshments, to prosecute the search in different directions.

* * * * *

_Captain’s Log  
26 March 1851_

_Damn_ the man!

Please, God. Let him live. I shall never forgive myself if –.

* * * * *

_Ship’s Log  
28 March 1851_

At the first glimmer of dawn on the morning of the 27th, our three searchers were dispatched from the ship, fanning out in three directions. Leaving Lestrade in command in my absence, I took it upon myself to join the active search, along with volunteers Wynniatt and Donovan. It was several hours of hard hiking before I came upon the unfortunate object of our search. It appeared that the man had wanted some geological samples for his experiments, and most ill-advisedly made off into the howling night without informing anyone. He walked for some time, when, growing cold, he found himself unable to regain the ship, having, in his eagerness, paid no attention to the direction he was going in. He wandered about in vain seeking his homeward route, when, luckily, I came across his path. He seemed to be in a half demented state, overcome by fatigue and cold. It took several hours in a make-shift tent for me to warm and revive him to the point that he would agree to continue on with me to the ship. At last, he was persuaded to walk a little; but soon sunk in the snow in a state of utter helplessness, with haemorrage from mouth and nose, and partially convulsed. I saw that the poor fellow must soon expire, if a vigorous effort was not made to relieve him; yet our distance from the skip precluded the possibility of seeking assistance – before I could reach the ship, the man would be frozen to death, and a prey to the wolves then heard howling in the distance.

One alternative alone remained, and that was promptly adopted. Carry him I could not, as I am about the slightest, and he one of the tallest in the ship; nor would my small provision sled suffice to bear him across the ice. So, slinging my gun over my shoulder, I abandoned the sled and, with the man's arms around my neck, I commenced the task of dragging him over the snow in the direction of the ship. This had the good effect of exciting the vital powers, and antagoniznig in some degree, the lethargic sleep of death rapidly stealing over us both. What took me three hours to walk singly took more than double that time with my charge, and when we reached within a mile of the ship, I found my own physical powers giving way. Having succeeded in arousing a little more life in the helpless man, I laid him in a bed of snow, and started off for assistance, firing my gun to draw the attention of the distant crew. As the night was intensely cold, with a fresh breeze, and a temperature of 57° below freezing point, I knew the tragic scene must soon come to an end if relief did not speedily reach him.

I was met at about 22.30, about three quarters of a mile from the ship, and we returned to Holmes and dragged him between the four of us back to the ship. He was in a state of insensibility, arms and legs stiff' and rigid – the former extended, could with difficulty be bent – hands clenched and frozen, eyes fixed and glassy, jaws rigid and both so firmly clenched, that we could scarcely separate them to pour down restoratives. The pulse was imperceptible at the wrist, the heart barely acting. All being in readiness for his reception, the work of resuscitation commenced, which I had the satisfaction of seeing attended with success. Reactionary fever with delirium ensued, but from these, Stamford assures me he will recover.

Captain's commendations for Wynniatt, Donovan, and Stamford.

* * * * *

_Captain’s Log  
30 March 1851_

The past several days have been some of the most difficult I have endured. I have now, at least, recovered enough to make some private record of the whole misadventure.

I shall begin at the beginning of the whole painful affair.

Certain men – men of specific tastes and habits – have certain ways of telegraphing certain proclivities to certain other men. Our Able Seaman James Lyons, for example, has made himself clear to me from almost the instant of our first meeting. He is an appealing man, and I have been tempted, but too I have been preoccupied, and – well. It has not suited me to accept his repeated offers. This season, though, is so very dark, and I so long alone - it has been tempting. And the relentless hours of vacant time! One is so bored, then insipid and dull, then slowly one grows restless, and then desperate for – one knows not what.

Two nights ago, Lyons again offered. I accepted – I should not have, but I longed to feel warm, human flesh against me, and so I did. He came to my great cabin, well past midnight when the ship was quiet and only the watch on deck still awake.

We were, I realize now, not discreet. I inexcusably failed to bolt the door, and he inexcusably failed to shut his damned pretty mouth when things grew heated between us.

To cut a sordid scene short: Holmes burst through the door, a concerned inquiry on his lips, and found me fucking Lyons most enthusiastically over the table in my private cabin.

I imagined I had seen shock and alarm on his face before this – it was as nothing to this. The man looked as if he had been physically struck, his mouth gaping wide and his eyes – pained. “Excuse me,” he muttered. “I was mistaken.” And he withdrew, shutting the door behind him.

I pushed Lyons aside – rather more roughly than I should have. I could not continue with him. I could not _look_ at him.

He muttered a curse under his breath, and when I looked again he was gone.

I did not look in again on Holmes until the next morning, but lay wrestling with myself in the dark silence. I was angry – very angry – but I could not say why, or with whom.

I rose when the ship’s bell rang out the hour of 06.00 and knocked at Holmes's door. I could not even have said what I hoped to accomplish by speaking to him -- just that I felt the overwhelming need to somehow clear the air between us.

But only silence answered my rap. His cabin was empty, his belongings in disarray. On his bed, quite in the open, sat a hypodermic syringe and an empty phial. For a moment, my anger overtook me, and I was obliged to pause and master myself. Finally, I secreted the incriminating objects in my pocket, and then called for Stamford and Lestrade. We searched the ship from top to bottom as thoroughly and discreetly as we could, I almost blind with rage.

I ripped apart his cabin, seeking some clue as to where the man could have gone, and evidence of any other substance he could use to do himself harm. I found nothing at all. He had held that single dose on reserve, and last night – he had needed it.  

I was mystified by this, for no explanation seemed to fit into my own understanding of the man and his character, but I hardly had time to think of that in the urgency of the situation: if Holmes was on the ice, he would not survive for long.

We then began the search in earnest: Lestrade outfitting three sleds for search parties, I ordering the guns to be fired and every light aboard ship to be lit.

I have had occasion before to bless Lestrade and to thank Providence for his service, and I certainly did again. He was quick, efficient, and discreet in all his doings, and he did not question my determination to be part of the active search.

“Good luck sir,” he said, as I pulled on my cold-weather slops. “Holmes is the cleverest bastard I’ve ever met. If anyone can survive, he can.”

I nodded. “No man of mine will perish on this mission if I can help it,” I replied, but the wind howled with such viciousness that my heart misgave me.

Wynniatt, Donovan, and I each took our little sleds and tethered them around our shoulders. The wind had polished the snow to such a glossy hardness that it was almost easy to pull. We fanned out from the ship, equidistant from each other, in order to sweep the area as efficiently and thoroughly as possible. Wynniatt flanked me to the left, and Donovan to the right. It was too dim, and the wind too strong, to hope for tracks, and indeed there were none.

Within minutes, we were out of sight of each other, the wind howling with such violence that even calling out was fruitless. The light and intermittent signals from the ship allowed us to orient ourselves, and so stay on our planned paths.

In the half-light of the Arctic day, with snow and wind swirling constantly around me, it became impossible to keep track of time. It felt like days before I stumbled across the figure lying in the snow – and it was only luck that I found him at all, for had I passed a dozen yards to either side of him, I would never have seen him.

He was only partially conscious when I found him, covered with a thin layer of snow, numb and stupid with cold. I knew I would have to warm him before attempting to transport him back to the ship, for he would not likely survive another long journey in such temperatures. I took the canvas frame from my sled and pitched a makeshift tent around him where he lay, pulling him up onto a buffalo hide blanket and sealing the canvas around him as best I could. Then I crawled in as well, half beside and half on top of him in the tiny space. My body heat would help warm the air around him, and perhaps he would revive more quickly.

He was murmuring to himself all the time that I worked, incoherent mutterings and strange, aborted, half-stumbling gestures that were impossible to interpret. I could not judge whether his condition was a result of the cold, or of the cocaine he had taken.

I lit our tiny spirit heater – again, thank God for Lestrade’s foresight – our only external source of warmth, and within minutes the small space of the tent began to warm, slightly.

I became aware, suddenly, that Holmes had ceased his muttering, and shook him roughly in alarm.

“Holmes! Sherlock! Wake up! Don’t dare fall asleep, Sherlock. Speak to me.”

His eyes cracked open, and he regarded me stupidly.

“Speak to me,” I repeated.

He said nothing, but his eyes remained open, and his breath, though quick and shallow, was regular.

After twenty or thirty minutes of this, he began to shake, which I took as an excellent sign that his hypothermia was abating. I began to chafe his extremities, hoping to prevent frostbite as much as possible.

Gradually, his chattering began to form syllables, then words, then almost-intelligible strings of words. The pupils of his eyes were like tiny pinpricks, and his body was wracked with convulsive shudders, but I was able to make out some of what he said.

 “J—. J—. John. You have no right – no right, John! – to make me feel things – things I hadn’t thought to – things I do not –.” He broke off into a convulsive shiver.

I longed to hush him, to question him, to – to embrace him in his misery. We were so close in the tiny makeshift tent.

I did nothing.

“You do not want me, J—. John, but—” he took a deep, shuddering breath. “To take just any —. Anyone at all to your b-. To your bed. L—. Lyons? Without an ounce of interest about him! S—. Such a man as that? I do not understand. It is in— insupportable.”

I shook my head at that. He was half dead from cold and influenced by cocaine. He did not know what he was saying, and anyway – I could not explain myself. Suddenly, my anger came roaring back.

“Insupportable?” I hissed. "And I suppose it is _supportable_ to drug oneself into oblivion? To abscond from a place of safety to one of mortal danger? I suppose it is supportable to, through insane self-slaughter, most selfishly deny the world of an incredible, unique mind? To deny me of – of my true friend? Is that _supportable_?”

He blinked at me owlishly and did not reply. I do not know that he comprehended a word I said, for the next instant, his eyes rolled up and his head lolled frighteningly to the side.

All the fight left me. I grabbed him and shook him, slapping his face and shouting his name in panic. And then I remembered my flask, and fumblingly tipped a good dose of brandy up into his mouth.

He spluttered and began again to shake, but his eyes opened. He yet lived.

“Keep speaking, Sherlock. I am sorry. Please stay with me. Try to stay awake.”

He laughed then, as I have never heard him laugh: a thin, reedy, most unnatural sound.

“Stay with you!” he gasped at last. “You are the most –”

He leaned back against the blanket and closed his eyes for a moment, but when they opened they fixed on me with startling intensity.

“Speak to me of Sholto,” he said at last, and his voice was low, terribly low, but clearer than it had been. His words were nothing less than a command. I leaned closer to hear him better. “You ask me to find him,” he continued. “You ask me to care about him, to work for him, to help you find – I don’t know – your former commander? Your lover? You give me no useful information about the man, and expect me to care for him as you do? And then—. You kiss me! You kiss me, John, and then you push me away! And do not speak to me! And will not tell me why!”

By the end of this long speech he was gasping for breath and shuddering in my arms, but I heard every word, and each landed as a lash across my back.

I could not dissemble, not in such circumstances, and yet it is so difficult to speak a heart’s truth. “You wish to know about Sholto?” I asked – for perhaps that was the least impossible of his questions. His eyes were trained on my face. “Then know all: I love him. I loved him. I loved him and I saved him, and I have been damned ever since.” My face was wet and cold. “And Sherlock,” I continued helplessly, “understand this: I will not – I will _not_ – subject you to the same fate.”

He sighed then, just once, as if all his strength was gone, and leaned back again into his blanket. He shook his head once, quickly, and then lay still.

I started up in alarm, but his hand found mine, and pressed it, once. “Thank you, John,” he whispered. “I must rest. Give me an hour, please.” 

I did, of course. It was perhaps the longest hour of my life, lying in the dark with Sherlock Holmes, listening for his every breath above the howling of the Arctic wind, and fearing that it would not come.

How we made it through the long trek back to the Investigator, I do not know. I dragged him the whole way through that nightmarish, barren landscape, the savage wind biting and tearing at us with every step. I could not stop to rest, for fear of never rising again. By the end I was staggering, my limbs entirely numb and every muscle shaking with fatigue, and he was a dead weight at my side. I did not know if he yet lived, and all I could do was carry on blindly.  

It took two men to crack me out of my slops when we finally reached the ship, for the wind had driven the snow through the thick wool of my outer great coat and deep into the inner layers, where it had melted with my body heat, and then frozen again in a crackling shell.

Stamford had Holmes carried immediately to sick bay. I passed several fearful hours when Holmes’s fate hung in the balance, but Stamford assures me now that his survival is now certain, and that his full recovery simply requires time.

Time is the one thing we have in plentiful supply. We sit in the dark, in the cold, and put our faith in the growing fingers of dawn that light the sky -- a little more each day. We put our faith in Spring.

* * * * *

13 April 1851

From: Mrs. John Watson  
To: Mr. Mycroft Holmes  
Care of: Diogenes Club, London

Sir

I have to request that you will do me the favour of granting me the sum of £1000 from the arrears of my husband’s pay, or such further portion of it, as, together with the sums I have already drawn, will amount to one half of the arrears due to him since his departure from England.

I make the request as needing this sum for subsistence, as well as for the liquidation of some small debts, and because he authorized me to draw his pay if I required it.

I have refrained hitherto from making any regular periodical application for this money as a legitimate part of my income, mainly from my repugnance to present such undignified repeated requests. I find, however, that I am now in dire need of it.

I have the honour to be

Sir  
your obed serv  
Mary Watson

* * * * *

_Ship’s Naturalist’s log  
20 April 1851_

I am too weak still to tell the story; indeed, I wish nothing more than to forget it all. Already what I remember is vague and dream-like. I remain susceptible to cold. I have no more cocaine. I am a fool. John came to see me every day in sick bay, while Stamford was at mess. I am more compromised than ever I was, and he? He is far kinder than I deserve, and every act of kindness stings like a lash.

 

* * * * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: this chapter contains an account of the Inuit legend of the moon and the sun, which references sibling incest and cannibalism.
> 
> As of this week, posting will be every other week instead of weekly. I've burned through my posting cushion, and I don't want the second half of the story to suffer from hasty writing. Thanks so much for your patience! I'll post teasers in the "off" weeks on my Tumblr. 
> 
> xoxoxox


	7. May – August 1851

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Men heal, and in the healing, change. Men who do not – die."

_Ship’s Log  
7 May 1851_

The daylight lasts longer each day, and the temperature rises, though gradually. The men are slower, thinner, more ragged that they were before this difficult season, but the daylight invigorates them. We have eagerly begun to prepare the ship for spring, although we are unlikely to see the summer thaw for six more weeks, at least. It is my intention that it will find us in a state of high efficiency, ready to sail hard in pursuit of our quarry and withdraw before the ice catches us in another winter. The first work commenced, is to ascertain the exact quantity, state and condition of the provisions on board, that we might be fully aware of the extent of our resources, a very necessary measure of precaution. The holds have been accordingly cleared out, and light and air admitted; this tended much to their purification, and then the contents were enumerated and returned. We must continue to augment our existing rations with fresh meat; if we do so, our remaining rations will last another 5 months, even given the disastrous losses we suffered in our Atlantic crossing. 

* * * * *

_Naturalist’s Log  
13 May 1851_

I have begun to recommence some of my duties, being now largely recovered from what the Captain and Stamford refer to as my “most recent misadventure.” The ice increased 9 inches whilst I was kept to sick bay, and is now 6 feet 5 inches thick. I have resumed my atmospheric readings – as well as several of my more stable experiments into the effects of cold weather conditions on the rates of decomposition of various tissues.

I remember perhaps only a quarter of all the things that transpired on the ice, and for all the hardship, for all the humiliation, for all the suffering, I feel – scoured out.

There is a little moth, the Gynaephora groenlandica, samples of which I collected early on in our sojourn here (12J.6509 through 12J.6514). As a little caterpillar, it spends most of its lifespan – thought to be up to 14 years, although this is as yet unconfirmed – actually frozen in the ice in a protective hibernaculum, and pupates only when and if it reaches both maturity and necessary external temperatures with precise simultaneity. If these conditions are met? Metamorphosis! by processes unknown.  

I wish to understand these processes.

* * * * *

_Captain’s Log  
14 May 1851_

Stamford came to my great cabin tonight and spoke to me at some length about the health and morale of the crew: the former which suffers now that the harsh conditions of the arctic winter have exposed underlying weaknesses in several men’s constitutions, and the latter which grows more robust as spring at last approaches. He is particularly concerned about second mate Stephen Court, who has been unable to perform even light duties for several weeks, and has been confined to sick bay for the past few days with a tubercular cough.

Stamford further requested to conduct an examination upon my person, with particular attention to the action of the vital organs, given my recent loss of flesh.

I smiled ruefully and removed my jacket and shirt, indicating that he should begin. “I am not ill,” I said, “but by all means, you must do your duty. I fear,” I added unthinkingly, “that if we find Sholto – _when_ we find him – he will find me gravely changed.”

Stamford looked at me quite piercingly then; he is a man so kindly, so blandly sympathetic, that I often overlook his surprising perspicacity. In his own way, he reads men as well as Holmes. He finished his examination of me, and pronounced me fit and well, if slightly undernourished. I agreed to finish my rations each day, and he seemed satisfied. Before he left, though, he put a hand on my shoulder and spoke to me seriously.

“I am addressing you now as a medical man, John, as well as your friend. I will tell you the same thing I told Holmes when first he awoke after his ordeal on the ice. Men heal, and in the healing, change. Men who do not – die.” He squeezed my shoulder once, then turned and left me, shouldering his way through the narrow companionway.

I have sat here thinking on his words for an hour or more. I think perhaps Stamford is a very wise man. I must be brave enough to heal, whatever that may mean.

* * * * *

17 May 1851  
  
Miss Janine Hawkins  
The Sheffield Female Political Association  
37 Upper Hannover Street, Sheffield

Dear one,

I hold in my hands two rather exciting pieces of paper. Shall I tell you? The first is a moderately large banker’s draft from one Mr. Mycroft Holmes, and the second, a one-way ticket to Paris, departing in a fortnight. I have decided to take your excellent advice, and wonder only why I did not think of such a course of action earlier myself. It is time for a change. I do not know if I can be happy and fulfilled in my life; you scoff, I know, but I truly do not know whether these are possible for a creature of my disposition. I suppose I can but try.

I feel nothing but antipathy for the home I am leaving, and only the thought of missing you dreadfully, as I know I shall, gives me pause. Promise to visit me?

I have made no arrangements, as yet, for my life in Paris. I expect to take a room in Pigalle, perhaps, or somewhere similar. You’ll enjoy that, my dear. Perhaps I will move often. Perhaps I will use a different name. Perhaps I will be a different person.

I want to think only, now, of my new life, and yet when I am on the ship I know I shall think of my John, sailing off somewhere on the same sea – for the seas are all connected, are they not? I know that you do not approve of or understand our arrangement, but it has truly been one of the great anchors of my life, and I miss him.

And so, I shall think on John, and hope the sea brings me some insight into his life which I am very far from understanding. I do not wish to blame him for leaving me, nor do I – not really. But certainly I resent the ease with which he did it, and the freedom with which he moves through life. I resent it greatly. I must – I must find a way to eradicate that resentment before I can return to him. Whether this is possible, I do not know.

Write to me, won’t you? Poste Restante Centrale, Paris. I shall look out for your letters. In truth, I shall rely upon them, for they will be my only anchor, now.

Yours in most sincere Love, Gratitude, and Admiration,

Mary

* * * * *

_Naturalist’s Log  
17 May 1851_

Yesterday, during the prevalence of a south-easterly gale, the temperature rose in the course of four and twenty hours from 30° below zero to 16° above it, but today it is as low as before; a wonderful change in such a brief period, caused surely by the warmer air brought up by the gale.

And too, there is another thawing with which I have even less first-hand experience. The captain and I have resumed our evening walks when the weather permits, striking out a mile or three on the ice road before turning back again. Often the wind makes conversation impossible, but those are somehow the best walks of all.

* * * * *

_Ship’s Log  
25 May 1851_

Many more animals have been observed by the watch since the weather began to warm, however slightly: fowl and small mammals – even a pair of caribou. Today I took a hunting party five miles inland and had far better success that we have had all winter. We returned at 23:00 with a small sledge piled high with game. On our return to the ship, we had the pleasure of seeing her dark hull again exposed to view – the deep snow embankment which concealed it having been removed during our absence by a work party led by Lestrade. Thus unrobed, she presented a pleasing contrast to the white surface around. Caulder prepared a late feast of fresh, roasted meat which the men devoured avidly; they have been on three-quarters rations for many months, and relished the plentiful offerings. The remaining meat will be salted and stored for future rations.

* * * * *

_Ship’s Log  
30 May 1851_

An event of great importance in spring operations took place today: the removal of the snow from the upper deck. It was wonderful to see what an altered appearance everything presented on board. Pleasing and agreeable was it, indeed, to all, to walk the planks again, and receive, between decks the light of day, from which they had been so long excluded.

* * * * *

_Naturalist’s Log  
1 June 1851_

The last of the very cold winter months have come to an end. In May, the mean temperature of 28° below zero was higher by 18° than that of the preceding month, although the range differed but little, from 6° to 51° below zero. Cold westerly and north-westerly winds generally prevailed.

During my time in sick bay, Stamford developed a most gratifying interest in the chemical properties of arctic flora. We had many long conversations on the subject, and his questions were surprisingly insightful on several occasions. I daresay he is a man too often underestimated. In any case, I went yesterday to meet him in sick bay to clarify a point I had made about the likely processes of climactic adaptation in a certain species of lichen. There were murmurs in the companionway, and when I paused, I heard voices emanating from the now nearly-empty bread room. The door was slightly ajar, and from my position in the dark corridor – for I carry no lantern, as a rule – I could see the silhouettes of John – of Watson, and of Lyons, speaking softly with their heads together. I saw Lyons place his hand on John’s arm, and John smile kindly and shake his head. Lyons removed his hand. They spoke for a few minutes more, and then John looked around briefly, and leaned in to kiss Lyon’s cheek. Only his cheek. Lyons stepped back and tossed off a neat salute, but he, too, was smiling.

I suppose that the man will never cease to surprise me, and that I am damned to a life of – of _fundamentally not understanding_. He is not one thing. I may call myself by many names, many titles, but I am – to my core – a naturalist: I seek to know. That is my essence. John – is _not_ one thing. When he says he is a husband, that he loves his wife, he does not lie. He is that, and fully. But that does not stop him from being fully a sailor, fully a commander. Fully Sholto’s lover. Fully a friend. He inhabits so many things so completely; it is quite alarming. Or, I should say, fascinating. I stood in my dark corner and watched his neat and efficient step take him back up the ladders to the main deck.

Later, he called me to his great cabin and asked me to run another test on my experimental design of gunpowder as an ice-blasting agent, as we know not how soon an opportunity will occur when gunpowder might aid our advance. I resolved to again test its efficacy, this time on a floe of last year's ice, about four feet thick and in our immediate vicinity. A hole was accordingly bored until the water was reached, and a small cask containing forty-seven pounds of powder was placed beneath the floe, and ignited by means of a Pickford’s fuse. The explosion which took place eleven minutes after the fuse was ignited, caused the ejection of a cloud of broken ice and water to an elevation of eighty or one hundred feet in the air and produced an opening in the ice twenty-five feet in diameter, from whence fissures radiated in different directions from sixty to two hundred feet. This experiment may be taken as a fair instance of the effects of a given charge of gunpowder on ice of a certain character under the most favorable circumstances. The shock of the explosion was felt on board, and caused our bells to ring without a pull.

* * * * *

_Ship’s Log  
13 June 1851_

We are in a state of anxious preparation for the great event, to which we all ardently look forward: our release from the ice. We continue to observe the slightest movements and noises in the ice with breathless anticipation. It has decreased in thickness by 2 feet 2 inches during the previous fortnight. A parhelion was visible this evening at 20:00, but much less brilliant than this beautiful phenomenon, as seen in the winter.

* * * * *

_Ship’s Log  
17 June 1851_

A cheering report from the ice master in the crows-nest: a space of open water has been observed extending along the eastern shore to the northward for a couple of miles; the first blue water yet seen this year. Further, the visit of a few mosquitoes caused a lively degree of interest this evening; and we submitted to their assault with very different feelings than they would have created under other circumstances.

* * * * *

_Surgeon’s Log  
21 June 1851_

Court is dying of tuberculosis. There is very little I can do for him, besides keeping him comfortable; the disease must have taken hold of him long ago, and lay dormant until he was weakened by this last stretch of cold. I have informed the captain that I do not expect him to last another month. I have not attended a death in many years. I miss my colleagues particularly in these instances in which I would normally seek out their counsel.

Our stores of lime are more than half depleted, but it is my observation – in keeping with the suspicion of many of my colleagues in London – that the lime loses its potency over time. Several men have complained of the aches and fatigue that comprise the first symptoms of scurvy, and this despite their daily ration. The course of the illness may be halted and reversed if I can harvest sufficient anti-scorbutics during the coming warm season. This shall be my first priority.

I have noticed a positive change in the health of our captain. He keeps to his word, and consumes all of his rations every day – but more than that, there is a new resolve about him that I have not seen before. He is a stubborn man, Lord knows, and it appears now that he is willing himself to be less troubled. I do not know what grievous wound afflicts him, but I believe he is beginning to heal.

* * * * *

27 June 1851

Doctor Joseph Bell  
#9 Harley Street  
London, West 1  
  
Dr. Bell,

Dear sir, please come at once. Father is dreadfully ill and I can do nothing for him. He has not eaten in two days, but will not sit or rest or sleep, but only walks about in a state of continual agitation. The things he says, sir! Please, we await your coming. I know he has treated you most deplorably in the past, but please, think of me here by myself. Be merciful and come.

Yours most sincerely,

Molly Hooper

* * * * *

_Ship’s Log  
28 June 1851_

Each successive day reveals some change in the aspect of the ice; the cracks to the southward having opened out considerably, and connected themselves with the water formed along either shore. We anxiously wait for each successive tide to break up those barriers by which we are still retained. We will not be kept much longer in bondage.

* * * * *

_Ship’s Log  
2 July 1851_

At an early hour, the ice was observed in motion; but until 10:30 we were still stationary as far as our landmarks enabled us to determine; then the ice under our stern became detached from the floe, and was borne a few feet to the northward, leaving the ship in a lane of water which opened out into the large expanse to the northwest. In the probability of our being separated from our well tried, trusty floe, anchors were laid out, by means of which we renewed the bond of union, then threatened with rupture.

The anchors were not laid out too soon, but proved a good precautionary measure, for at 14:40 the ice separated and broke up so gently about us, that the first intimation we had of this great fact, was seeing the ship floating in and surrounded once more by her own element—thus testifying, that the long wished for period of liberation has arrived. We were slowly borne to the northwest in company with our floe, with scarcely a breath of air.

So sudden was our departure, that some of our men who had gone for their washed clothes, then drying on a neighbouring floe, had not time to regain the ship; and myself with one or two others, only a few yards distant, with difficulty got on board before she moved off. Though we greatly rejoice at our deliverance, we cannot hope to make much westerly advance for some time, as much ice yet remains.

I therefore determined to take advantage of our small lane of open water, which extends for a short distance to the northwest, and with a fair wind to make sail, run as far as possible. For this purpose, we were at last obliged to part from our old and faithful icy friend, which had borne us in safety through so many trying scenes and perils.

Accordingly, at 16:00 we cast off from it, and the joyful pipe of “All hands make sail," was heard for the first time in many months. Right cheerfully was it responded to, and we soon saw with delight our little ship once more under canvass, making the best of her way through loose ice, backing and filling alternately, to clear numerous opposing obstacles until 19:30, when our further progress became so impeded, that we were obliged to secure the ship to a large floe, and continue drifting again as before.

* * * * *

Medical Certificate of Cause of Death

To the Registrar General, London

I hereby certify that I attended Sir Michael Hooper aged 62 last birthday; that I last saw him on 25 March 1851, that he died on 28 June 1851 at 3:35 a.m. and that the cause of his death was (a) first, apoplexy; complicated by (b) chronic neurasthenia. Death occurred immediately following a major apoplectic attack in presence of Miss Margaret Hooper, daughter.

I further certify that the deceased died of natural causes, and that an inquest was not required prior to burial.

Signed: Dr. Joseph Bell

Address: #9 Harley Street, London

Certificate issued this 4th day of July in the year of our Lord 1851.

* * * * *

_7 July 1851  
Ship’s Log_

Today we at last made sail through an open space of water which led us north around Cape Dundas and into Parry Sound. We reached the edge of a large floe, into an indentation in which the ship was warped and again secured. A considerable space of open water was observed to the west, continuous with that on the south shore of which I have before spoken. It was agonizing to view such an opening without being able to reach it. And then at 16:00, our position again became so critical that a repetition of the measures necessary for a sudden abandonment of the ship was very properly adopted. The floe, on the outer edge of which we were secured, had from the effects of pressure become completely turned round, so as to place us between it and the shore, and we found ourselves distant from the latter not more than 600 yards, so that any pressure acting on its distant edge must have thrown us at once on the beach. We lay within the influence of the slightest exercise of its power. Thus threatened by ice on one hand and the shore on the other, we rejoiced when a slight change taking place enabled us to escape from our position and warp into one of greater safety.

The ice then began to open about us most wonderfully, which enabled us to warp clear of danger, and as the water increased, the boats were lowered to tow for the first time this season. A fresh breeze soon afterwards springing up enabled us to make clear of all opposing difficulties, and at midnight we reached the long desired open water of Parry Sound, with appearances auspicious for our northerly advance. Ship’s naturalist reports the temperature of air ranged from 40° to 52°, that of water from 32° to 36°; specific gravity 1014. This change, the most sanguine amongst us could not have hoped for, much less forseen, but such is the ever varying aspect this element assumes when once in motion, that it is impossible to predict its changes, or foretell what a few hours may bring forth.

_* * * * *_

_Captain’s Log  
26 July 1851_

How well it is to be in open water again. And so early in the season – almost a month earlier than Lestrade would normally expect! There remains, only, the question of our precise route. I have my instructions from Mr. Mycroft Holmes: to sail the strait between Baring Island and Prince Albert Land, into the uncharted Esquimeaux territory beyond. He made a mark on the chart to represent his prediction of where Sholto will be found, and if all goes well, we should be able to reach that point in a fortnight or a little more.

This evening I asked Sherlock Holmes to my great cabin and laid my charts out on my table. We stood together looking down at them, and I said not a word – for I was curious to see whether his thoughts would match those of his brother.

After several minutes of close study, he nodded decisively and took up a small pin, which he stuck in place – at precisely the same location his brother had marked over a year ago.

“There,” he said. “It is impossible to account for all the potential variables, but all things being equal, we shall find the ship, the men, or at the very least, news of them, at this spot.”

I thanked him very sincerely, but made no mention of our patron’s opinion; I hope I am a wiser fool than that. Then again, the difference between a wise man and a fool is something with which I am increasingly unconcerned. Similarly, moral and immoral. In the end, such words matter little, and the best a man can hope is that he has been resolute in living his truth, whatever that may be. I have been giving the matter much thought.    

* * * * *

_Ship’s Log  
28 July 1851_

Luck is with us; conditions have been most favourable, and we traversed Parry Sound swiftly and easily. With such progress, we can now well afford a brief hunting expedition on Baring Island, which should also please Dr. Stamford, who seeks certain plants that grow wild and act as anti-scorbutic agents. We weighed anchor in an uncharted place we have called Investigator Bay (115°W and 73.5°N; entered into chart 1851C, appended), and rowed the jolly boat to shore with a party of five hunters, myself, the surgeon, and the naturalist.

Seals are numerous; they move about quite sluggishly, apparently free from care or strife, and equally ignorant of our rifles and the harpoon of the Esquimaux. When we approached the shore, we were astonished to see evidence of fire, but upon investigation Holmes deemed the smoke as being entirely the result of chemical action in the soil. We passed a fruitful and enjoyable day ashore. The hunters returned from their labours with so much meat as to render it necessary to take two trips back to the ship, so as to accommodate the weight of it all. Caulder will be well occupied in cooking and preserving it. Among our kills are two large seals, for although their meat is oily and unpleasant, it is known to be excellently nutritious and the blubber can be rendered down into a useful oil.

Stamford harvested a large volume of native flora, which he hopes will prove efficacious in preventing further instances of scurvy. We tarried on the shore for another hour or two, for the days are growing long. Returned to the ship by midnight, well prepared to sail hard again tomorrow.

* * * * *

_Surgeon’s Log  
28 July 1851 _

To land today in search of _Saxifraga punctata_ , marsh fleabane ( _Senecio  congestus_ ), and coltsfoot ( _Petasites  frigiqys_ ). I confess absolute ignorance as to what such plants might look like, having only read about them in scientific papers, but Holmes is, as always, more than happy to inform me of the depth of my witlessness and to redress it. He made several sketches for me, that I might be able to identify them, and went so far as to accompany me on the day’s expedition, pointing out samples for my edification. Lestrade informs me that that these plants can be made into a form of “sauerkraut” mixed with blubber; and that this concoction keeps Esquimeaux and white men alike quite free of the symptoms of scurvy. If I can convince the men to consume such a vile admixture, I shall conduct a small study. I certainly intend to take some myself.

* * * * *

_Naturalist’s Log  
28 July 1851_

The need for more extensive hunting works to my advantage, for it is doubtful we would have halted in our rapid progress westward for any other reason. As it is, I was able to spend a day ashore in a most interesting landscape. It was our first real expedition in many months; a vast relief to be off the ship in pleasant surroundings, and to be collecting new samples for analysis once more.

We made land on the northeast shore of Baring Island. The land was of bituminous slate; clay and loam, of a red, black, and yellow colour were singularly blended together. Further inland, dense columns of smoke issued from miniature volcanic mounds; not from any well-defined crater, but from their top, into which a pole could be thrust, as if into a cavity—so little adherent were its particles. Large masses of lime and sulphur, variously combined with other elements of the soil, including alum and silenito, could then be dug out.

The ground appeared as if in a state of fermentation, from the light spongy nature of the soil, and so hot that we could not stand on it many minutes. These mounds formed quite a little amphitheatre, inclining from the sea at an angle of 45°, and elevated in height from ten to thirty feet. Several of them were stratified with black and yellow alternately—clay and sulphur; and others had quite a laminated appearance, stood entirely detached, and were chiefly composed of rich loam. There were several small rills of running water, elevated in temperature, in various states of combination with the substances mentioned. The general appearance conveyed to my mind an idea of similar chemical agency having previously existed on the bed of the ocean, prior to which, the sedimentary deposit from the super-incumbent water may have filled up the interstices of the cones, so as to impart that line of evenness and uniformity it now presents.

A little further along the shore, the seawater itself was steaming, the phenomenon I had observed inland having the effect of heating the sea in localized areas to temperatures varying between 143º in the most active areas to 104º towards the edges. The temperature of the unaffected seawater remains just slightly above freezing. I spent several hours taking samples and measurements that will, with careful analysis, enable me to fully document the phenomenon.

When I looked up from my work, the sun had dipped to the horizon and painted the sky in the oranges, pinks, and blues of the strange midnight twilight of the Arctic summer. Captain Watson was sat on the beach watching me; I had no idea how long he had been there. He had brought me supper, for the men had lit a huge fire at our landing point and roasted several of the freshly snared hares. We ate together in silence, looking out over the strange landscape: rock and steam, ice and grass and crescent moon.

I have a new hypothesis, and that is that a sort of metamorphosis occurs in humans, as well as some animals. It happens to us invisibly, and often without volition, but it is inexorable when the necessary requirements for change are met. Those conditions, though, are different for each species, and for each individual man. My conditions are – I believe my conditions have been met. Perhaps _his_ have, as well.   

* * * * *

_Captain’s Log  
28 July 1851_

A most satisfying expedition. The hunting party had excellent success, as did Stamford and Holmes in their various pursuits. When all the work of the day was finished, I permitted the men to remain ashore for several more hours, and when darkness fell they built up a large fire with driftwood scavenged from the beach and roasted several hares and two ptarmigan upon a carefully rigged spit, upon which they fell with good cheer and vigour.

I took one of the hares and walked half a mile up the beach to find Holmes, who was still engrossed in his scientific activities. To my astonishment, the man had discovered a natural hot spring, and was crouched in the water, his clothing sopping wet, collecting samples. He becomes so absorbed in his work that he forgets all else, and then his face --.

I made him come up to the beach and take a meal with me, for I knew for a fact that the man had eaten nothing all day. We passed a pleasant while together, but suddenly I became aware that he was shivering violently. The temperature is moderate now, and quite comfortable, but he remains grievously susceptible to cold after his ordeal on the ice. The breeze coming off the sea and his wet clothing had chilled him terribly.

The spectre of his discomfort made me decisive, even bold, for I cannot, with equanimity, see him suffer. I stood and began to pull off my clothing, setting it on the beach beside him.

“John?” he asked uncertainly, through chattering teeth.

“Come,” I replied. “It is senseless to suffer when there is a remedy so near at hand. As for myself, I have not had a warm bath in well over a year.”

And here I turned and strode into the water, quite naked. I should have called the rest of the party to join us, but ah! I felt so strange: both unlike myself, and more myself than I have ever been. I shrugged off Captain Watson for a time, and all of that man’s cares. When the water reached nearly my waist, I dropped to sit. I was up to my neck in blissful heat, and I could not help but groan aloud at the profound comfort of it.

When I turned again to the shore, Sherlock was standing, his body silhouetted against the muted colours of the summer night sky. Piece by piece, he pulled off his clothing and followed me into the water. I closed my eyes and heard him splash nearer. I resolved to be true.

He sat beside me, silently. I felt the moment his shivering finally subsided and his body relaxed into the warmth. His breathing was uneven. He slipped down further into the water, steam rising around him, until only his head was above the surface.

“There were times during the winter when I thought I should never be warm again,” I said.

He nodded, his unruly hair stark against alabaster skin. In the distance, a pair of ravens called to each other. “And yet, here we are,” he replied. His voice was strangely hoarse.

“Here we are.”

“I did not expect –” he paused, and turned to face me. We were very close. “Never in my life did I expect this.”

I did not ask his meaning. “No more did I,” I said, and then he reached for me, and caught my hand between his own, and brought it to his chest, over his heart, and I could feel it thrumming in the water.

“I am glad of it, though,” he murmured, “whatever befalls us.” 

“Whatever befalls us,” I agreed.

It was quite some time later when I came ashore, washed clean and glowing warm. I pulled on my clothes and jogged up the beach to call the rest of the shore party to come and bathe before our return to the ship. Sherlock would not come out at all until the very last possible moment. Unexpectedly, he is a sensualist; he luxuriated in the warm water for as long as he could, staying well clear of the crew’s delighted horseplay.

Whatever befalls us, there are moments of joy. We must seize them.

* * * * *

_Surgeon’s Log  
29 July 1851 _

It is with a heavy heart that I make my first casualty report. We returned to the ship at approximately midnight to find that second mate Stephen Court had lapsed into a tubercular coma from which he did not awaken. I am inclined to doubt my decision to leave him under another’s watch and go to shore, but then, there is nothing anyone could have done to prevent this outcome. Court took his last, painful breath at 08:18 this morning. I did not conduct an autopsy, as his cause of death was clear. Captain Watson ordered the body sewn up in canvas and placed in the dead room below deck; our first use of that terrible chamber. Court will be buried will all due honour when next we make land.

We are all solemn with this, our first loss.

* * * * *

 _Death Notice_  
Gentleman’s Magazine  
August, 1851

Mr. Michael Hooper, a frequent and most colourful contributor to the correspondence page of this periodical, entered into rest on 28 June, at home in London. His end was sudden after a lingering illness. Mr. Hooper was a well-respected man of business, and was predeceased by his wife in 1831. The funeral service was held at St. Aidan’s; remains interred at Highgate. May God have especial pity on his daughter Margaret, and enable her to bear this sudden sorrow with Christian fortitude.

* * * * *

_Ship’s Log  
2 August 1851_

This morning, the wind and water enabled us to fully traverse Prince of Wales Strait and put Baring Island firmly at our backs. We hug close to the shore of the coast, which is now Esquimeaux territory, unexplored by civilized man – or preceded only by Sholto’s expedition. Driftwood having been observed strewn in abundance along the beach, in the vicinity of this part of the coast, a boat was sent with Sugden (our carpenter) to procure some of it, and soon returned heavily laden; several pieces of which had such a fresh appearance that Mr. Sugden supposed it could not have been more than a few years from its native forest. The view from the mast-head revealed to us, the ice still unbroken far to the North. We were enveloped in a dense fog for the greater part of the day.

* * * * *

_Ship’s Log  
6 August 1851_

Progress is slower than our passage through Parry Sound, but continues steadily along the coast. Our lookout in the masthead combs the shore for signs of Sholto’s expedition, but thus far fruitlessly.

At times, loose pieces of crumbling pack ice – sometimes as high as our quarter-boats – still undergoing the process of thaw, float down around us. Being generally loose, we pass harmlessly through it all. The ominous sounds of conflict forcibly remind us of last winter's adventures; but how changed is the sound, now comparatively subdued and soft, when contrasted with the hard, loud, grinding noises that heralded the onset of winter.

* * * * *

_Captain’s Log  
7 August 1851_

Unless he has made the passage, he must be here. He must be close. And we must find him soon, or resign ourselves to another winter on the ice – and this more terrible than the last. I do not wish to lose more men on this mission, but we are all resolved to see it through. Even Holmes, who previously had no interest in Sholto or his crew, and who now has even less reason to wish for Sholto’s safe recovery, works tirelessly to aid the search, pouring over charts and expedition histories to ensure his predicted location is accurate. My feelings are – too vast to speak.

* * * * *

_Ship’s Log  
12 August 1851_

The watch in the masthead has sighted a cairn ashore, just slightly west of where Mr. Mycroft Holmes and S. Holmes each laid their mark upon the charts. There is a little bay, and the mouth of a wide river disappearing south into Esquimeaux lands. To the north remains a sea of ice that seems to never melt. We have but a narrow channel of open water between the two: can this be the route of the Passage? The fog has come up now, and we cannot risk sending the jolly to be lost in it. Tomorrow we shall see what the cairn has to tell us.

* * * * *

_Naturalist’s Log  
13 August 1851 _

Up at 04:00 to row the jolly boat to shore along with a party of a dozen men. I confess, privately, to several unmeritorious sentiments, not least satisfaction in this confirmation of my deduction of Sholto’s chosen route. Satisfaction, but also some trepidation: it seems I have come to care about our collective mission slightly more than I intended or expected (which is to say, at all). In our short journey to shore, I espied several things that gave me pause; I held my tongue, however, as I had no wish to alarm the captain before it was absolutely necessary. On the shore, butted up against the scrubby brush, were bits of wood and detritus that looked, to me, not natural in shape or origin.

The general aspect everywhere in this region presents the same character of Arctic starkness, but here it is more generally bold and lofty in its outline, and the land more elevated. There is an estuary in the little bay, and then hills rising up on either side of the river, so lofty in some places as to be nearly vertical, rising to a height from 200 to 300 feet. Those having an eastern aspect, have their escarpment formed of a hard frozen snow, contrasting forcibly with the denuded wild appearance presented by those with a western front, which evidence that the prevailing winds are from the latter quarter.

The soil is composed of a scoriaceous admixture with large stones and boulders plentifully strewn over its surface; the latter has a uniform covering of granite, quartz, clay-slate, and other pebbles, with a few scanty tufts of hardy grasses and other arctic plants interspersed throughout.

In the little valleys running perpendicular to the shore, nature appears to be more lavish of her gifts. Favoured by the shelter afforded by the neighbouring hills, and by the melting of the summer's snow, I collected samples of numerous plants and small flowering shrubs that I have not seen described in the literature of the region. It is most thrilling.

I am sorry – to my own surprise, I am very sincerely sorry – for the contents of our other discovery.

* * * * *

_Ship’s Log  
13 August 1851_

Ashore early with a party of a dozen men. In the clear morning air, we found the cairn easily, and it was the work of an hour to dig out the message. The instant it was placed in my hands, I could perceive that some terrible decline had taken place in the interval between this and the leaving of the previous messages, for this was not a neatly-written letter with careful records appended. This was little more than a sheaf of scattered papers, torn and ragged and rolled together in a bit of shirt cotton. Message as appended here.

* * * * *

 _Record deposited by Captain James Sholto_  
Formerly, HMS Erebus  
15 July 1850  
Camp Erebus: 135.7° _W; 70.1_ ° _N_

_[First fragment, seemingly torn from a larger book]_

                    shore this morning, one of the seamen informed me that strangers were seen from the observatory. I proceeded accordingly in the direction pointed out, and soon saw four Esquimaux near a small iceberg, not far from the land, and about a mile from the ship. They retreated behind it as soon as they perceived me; but as I approached the whole party came suddenly out of their shelter, forming a body of ten in front and three deep. I hailed them, and was answered by a general shout of the same kind. The rest of my party now coming up, we

_[several lines obscured by water damage]_

frozen in quite irreversibly

_[several lines obscured by water damage]_

this, they threw their knives and spears in the air in every direction, returning the shout and extending their arms to show that they also were without weapons. But as they did not quit their places, we advanced, and embraced in succession all those in the front line, stroking down their dress also, and receiving from them in return this established ceremony of friendship. This seemed to produce great 

_[Second fragment:]_

all carried spears with shafts formed of small pieces of wood or bone joined expertly together. Having no foresight of these visitors we had of course no presents at hand for them, and we therefore sent a man back to the ship for 31 pieces of iron hoop, that there might be a gift for each individual. But in the mean time they consented to accompany us on board.

A lively trade has now begun. The savages come daily with food – more than enough to sustain us, although we have not found ways to prepare the seal and walrus meat palatably. We pay for this sustenance in metal, knives, needles, and barrel hoops. If we can find ways to preserve the meat in quantity, we shall be adequately provisioned for the next leg of the journey north west, if ever the damnable ice will thaw.

_[Third fragment:]_

demonstrate how a gun could hit hard at close range. When they saw the rock shatter, the Esquimeaux ran away. We anticipate no more trouble of the sort wi

_[Fourth fragment:]_

_Captain’s Log  
7 February 1849_

In the past month, the Esquimeaux have brought us for barter: two white bears, a dozen foxes, and fifty seals. We have come to a perfect understanding respecting the price of each article, and hope that the constant pilfering is at an end.

I was at first astonished to see so many young wives and mothers amongst the traders, and in such fine appearance and expression; many with large, dark, sparkling eyes, beautiful pearl-like teeth, most luxuriant raven-black hair, small and delicatelv-formed hands and feet. These women are radiant with smiles of cheerful good-humour, and much excite the interest of some of the men.

There is danger in this, as we are now on more intimate terms; and they invited us up to the encampment; but our interpreter did not consider it prudent, from what he judged of their character, to accept the invitation. We therefore stay with the ship, approached constantly by all the men, women and children—a wild and picturesque party. Each of us appears to have a group of followers; the women laying hold of our arms, and attempting to walk with us—a degree of familiarity it is not safe to allow with a people generally treacherous and deceitful. While thus walking, some of our people had their pockets picked, the thief taking advantage of their arms being held by the women.

_[Fifth fragment:]_

_Ship’s Log  
29 July 1850_

Still not the remotest sign of thaw and we remain held tight by the ice. Even the old ice master has not seen a year like this. Dropped to half rations. Morale low; several men very ill with tubercular coughs and scorbutic haemorrhage. The sick list

_[Sixth fragment:]_

                       orning, Mr. Mackenzie discovered that his whale-bone ship’s knife had been stolen, and recovered it in the Esquimeaux camp beside the ship. By way of punishment, the offender was consigned to solitary confinement for some hours in the ship’s coal-hole. As, however, the Esquimeaux only laughed at this as a very good joke, I determined to treat the entire company as seamen under my command, and administered naval discipline: the delinquent was put down into the store-room and closely confined for several hours; when having collected several of the natives on board, I ordered him to be stripped in their presence and to receive a dozen lashes on the back with a cat-o-nine-tails. He was then confined again for a night before we released him. Perhaps this will have the desired effect, and the Esquimeaux can be pacified with discipline where trade and friendship have failed to have a civilizing influen

_[Seventh fragment:]_

whether to press forward or to double back and retrieve the cached foods we deposited early in our voyage. Yesterday a hunting party went out and an affray ensued, in which three of the natives lost their lives. The men, it appeared, having surrounded a small lake to secure some wild fowl, were surprised by a party of Esquimaux, and at once retreated. The natives in following them fired a few arrows, upon which the men turned, and discharging their guns, killed three of the party, and might possibly have wounded others. The natives, thoroughly dismayed at seeing their countrymen fall around them, fled in the greatest disorder; and the men, equally alarmed, betook themselves to flight also. Our trade and good relations are unlikely to

_[Eighth fragment, badly crumpled and water damaged:]_

the ice was slowly crushing it, the men all worked for their lives in getting out provisions; but, before they could save much, the ice turned the vessel down on its side, snapping the masts and breaking a hole in her bottom so overwhelming that she sank at once, before I could even give the order to abandon ship. Several men at work could not get out in time, and were carried down with her and drowned. Two more froze to death in the aftermath. Many more are likely now to die of starvation, for we had not had time to get provisions out of her.

This is surely the worst moment in my

_[Final fragment:]_

wooden shelter here, to pass a fourth winter. Then march south with the river, and hope to encounter Indian encampments to lead us to a northern trading post. 

_[Writing on paper wrapper:]_

If this record is found, be it noted here that it is my belief that the Northwest Passage will be discovered by following the stretch of open water west between the continental shore and the impenetrable ice pack to the north. It will be for those who follow us to confirm our suspicion and complete our mission of discovery, which we have only partly fulfilled. We will follow the river south as long as we can walk: myself, Mackenzie, Johnson, Blythe, Surbaugh, Jeffries, Clinker, Donnelly, Fitzgerald, Rogers, and young Charles. We are now the only survivors.

* * * * *

_Erktua, who was a witness, speaks of the qallunaat disaster at Tuktuujaqrtuuq_

Ootook, a superior annatko, angered the qallunaat at Tuktuujaqrtuuq by taking a shovel to use at his own igloo. The qallunaat are vengeful. They caused him to be whipped with something that was made of ropes with knots in them. The Inuit who were forced to witness this wanted to help Ootook defend himself, but he told them, “Let the qallunaat try to kill me; they cannot, for I am an annatko.” Then Ootook’s hands were untied, after which the qallunaat tried to cut his hands and head with long knives. Every time a blow was struck, the extreme end of the blade came close to Ootook’s throat; occasionally the blade came just above the crown of his head. But after all he was uninjured because he is very powerful. This is what we saw. Then they put him back in the dark hole. After Ootook had been one day and one night in the dark hole, he thought he would use his power to destroy the vessel by splitting it through the middle from stem to stern.  So he commenced calling to his aid the Good Spirit, when a great crackling noise was made, now and then, under the ship, and at the end of the day of confinement, the qallunaat, fearing from such great and terrific noises that the ship would be destroyed, let Ootook go.

That night, the ice started to crack and break all around the qallunaat ship. They became excited, and prepared themselves to leave, but Ootook sat and laughed at them. While they were getting ready, even though the weather was so calm, pieces of wood started coming out from under the boat. Floating up and mixing with the ice. Pamiuluq, the one with the bad tail, was chewing up the boat, taking those pieces of wood out from under the water and the ice. The qallunaat did not notice their ship was breaking apart. They were excited, unusually excited, and they were cursed by the annatko not to notice. They were rushing, probably because they had not seen a thaw in so long. All of a sudden the ship completely broke apart. A lot of steam and smoke came out of it. The weather was calm, so even though we were far away from it, we could see the smoke.  A lot of the qallunaat sank into the water with the ship and drowned, and the water under the ice was so cold that some of them died of that. A few managed to make it to land, and there was much discussion amongst the Inuit about what we would do about that. In the end, we decided to leave them to themselves: not help them, and not kill them. We will see what they can make of themselves, these mighty qallunaat.

* * * * *

_Captain’s Log  
13 August 1851_

It is terrible to read such deterioration, and worse still to imagine such events. I feel I have been numb since the discovery of the cairn, as if touched by bitter cold. Can – can he yet live? Would something deep within me not know, if he were dead?

Holmes says that we should take hope from this: we are close. Whatever has happened, we are close to the end, now. His hand on my wrist is the only bit of warmth remaining, and how I cling to it.

* * * * *

 _Private diary_  
Molly Hooper  
14 August 1851

I am ruined. He has left me nothing but creditors. Every post brings more. I thought I would be free, but I am exactly as free as a caged bird, slamming itself again and again into the wire mesh of its cage. I cannot think –.

I am ruined. Gregory is gone, dead or gone – it matters little which. I have been a very great fool, I see that now – and Father is gone, and I am ruined. What am I to do?

* * * * *

_Ship’s Log  
15 August 1851_

Stephen Court was today interred on a rising ground a few hundred yards from the sea to the southwest of the ship. Mr. Wynniatt gave a reading and the crew sang a hymn. I performed my office, reciting words too familiar to sailors: “We therefore commit his body to the earth, to be turned into corruption, looking for the resurrection of the body and the life of the world to come, through our Lord Jesus Christ; who at his coming shall change our vile body, that it may be like his glorious body, according to the mighty working whereby he is able to subdue all things unto himself.” May I never be required to say these words again; they are terrible for a captain to speak. And then I must reflect upon how often Captain Sholto must have recited the same words, and I sorrow for him, and with him. A handsome tomb of stone and mortar was built over the spot, having at one end a stone let in, with the usual information engraved on it. The sides were plastered with a kind of viscous clay found in one of the ponds – Holmes would know the exact type. The top covered with tufts of the purple saxifrage.

In the midst of life we are in death.

* * * * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, lovelies! I hope you enjoy this update. See you in 2 weeks! xoxox


	8. August – October 1851

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A rescue party, an overland expedition, and a terrible discovery.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains some potentially disturbing descriptions of violence. Please see the End Note for further details if this is a concern for you.

_Ship’s Log  
16 August 1851_

Planning underway for an over-land rescue mission following Sholto and his eleven remaining crewmen south along the path of the great river. Mr. Lestrade departed this morning with an advance scouting party (Donovan and Anderson). They will march hard for five days up the river, making all possible haste. We anticipate their progress at 30 miles per day (surely much more than the sick and starving Erebus survivors would be able to make). At the end of their fifth day (at 150 miles south from the coast), they will deposit a secure cache of supplies (rations to last four men ten days, blankets, slops, and ammunition), and then return to the ship, halting only to hunt when they can. Upon their return, Lestrade will assume command.

Meanwhile, I will prepare a four-man rescue party, to be led by myself. Our packs will contain pemmican and hardtack enough for a month, which we will supplement with hunting as we can. Ammunition, warm and waterproof clothing, and canvas tents (one large, and one small spare) we will also carry. We depart early tomorrow. The party will consist of myself, Bill Newton, Jimmy Evans, and Sherlock Holmes. The former two are selected for their physical strength and endurance: we do not know in what physical condition we may find our quarry, and if it becomes necessary to haul injured men, Newton and Evans can haul more than any other man aboard. Naturalist Holmes’ cleverness and keen eye are invaluable tracking tools; he is also eager to see the interior of the continent.

* * * * *

_Captain’s Log  
16 August 1851_

The plan, I believe, is sound. If the Erebus survivors were unable to procure supplies and ammunition from their sinking ship, they cannot have got far. They cannot be hunting much, and may not even have adequate tents for shelter. Unless they have made peace with the savage tribe of which Sholto wrote, they must be close to starving. Soon they will be freezing. Every day, now – every hour – could be the difference between life and death for them. But at least now there is something I can do.

* * * * *

 _Overland Expedition Log_  
_Recorded by John Watson, Captain, Investigator_  
_18 August 1851_

Yesterday, the day of our departure from the Investigator, was mild, with the thermometer reaching as high as 59°, and very sunny. To make most haste, we dispensed with the usual overland sledge and carry only what we can fit in our packs. We have not had reason to regret this decision, although Holmes is unsurprisingly voluble in bemoaning his lack of proper scientific apparatuses.

* * * * *

Dearest Gregory,

I sat down to say a great deal – my heart was full – I did not know what to say first – and though, and grief, and confusion, and (O my head) I cannot tell what – and though, and grief, and confusion, came crowding so thick upon me; one would be first; another would be first; all would be first; so I can write nothing at all. – Only that, whatever has been done to me, I cannot tell; my supposed advantages became a snare to me. _Pretty_? What is pretty? Clever? _Kind_? It is nothing but waiting and waiting and more waiting, and all the while –. Yes, but I am; for I am still, and I ever will be,

Your true --

_* * * * *_

_Innugati whispers the story of Sedna to her daughters  
At Kangiqtugaapik when the sky was bright_

Many people tell many stories, and all of them are true. There are many stories of Sedna. This one is true, too.

There were a few families living together near Qikiqtarjuaq. They moved with the seasons to hunt beluga whales on the coast and caribou and musk ox on the tundra. Then one day, one of the hunters was careless. He was mauled by a walrus and died, leaving his wife, Sedna, alone. 

The woman was forced to depend upon charity. She became a burden of which the other families wished to rid themselves. So they put all her belongings into their umiak and one day when they were at sea they seized Sedna and cast her overboard. She struggled to regain the side of the boat and when she seized it they cut off her fingers.

Sedna, in her despair, screamed for vengeance as she sank under the waves. Her severed thumb became a walrus, her first finger a seal, and her middle finger a white bear.

And so now, when the former two animals see a man they try to escape, lest they be served as the woman was. The white bear lives both on the land and on the sea, and when she perceives a man, rage fills her and she determines to kill the person, who she thinks destroyed the woman from whose fingers she sprang.

Sedna will always have her revenge.

* * * * *

 _Ship’s Log_  
_First Mate Gregory Lestrade, recording_  
_25 August 1851_

Advance scouting mission came off passing well. Supplies for rescue party’s return cached approximately 165 miles south of the coast on the great river. Party returned in good health, self included; we passed the Captain’s party shortly after noon on 22 August. All well and making excellent progress. It is well we did not attempt to row the dinghy up the river, as some suggested, for the current is swift and there are many rocky rapids. Discovered the remains of an old Esquimaux encampment about two days’ journey south: two mounds of a circular form a few yards apart, and around each six heads of musk oxen were embedded in the soil. Nearby we found numerous bones of reindeer, foxes and birds strewn about, much bleached from long exposure. We found no other signs of human habitation.

* * * * *

_Surgeon’s Log  
27 August 1851_

My previous harvest of antiscorbutics proving most efficacious, the well men are daily sent ashore to gather sorrel. I have ample evidence of the beneficial effects resulting from its use; as of this date I can clearly discern an improvement in the general appearance of the men, and the majority express themselves as feeling generally better than they had felt a month previous. The quantity obtained is such as to afford a small allowance to each man daily, after the wants of the sickest are supplied. Sorrel, when eaten alone, or with the addition of a little vinegar and mustard, forms a most agreeable and excellent salad, highly relished and eagerly sought for by all.

We are also able to procure ducks, geese, and occasionally even eggs, which the men are permitted to retain for mess in addition to regular rations, with the result being that most have regained the weight they lost during the winter, and are recovering superbly.

I am pleased to report that the sick list (appended) is dwindling.

* * * * *

 _Overland Expedition Log_  
_Resumed_  
_28 August 1851_

Our days begin to shape themselves into a comfortable routine. We wake at 05:30 to break our fast, fold up our tent and are generally on the march by 06:00, taking luncheon (two squares of hardtack and whatever we manage to save from the previous night’s dinner) at midday, stopping only to fill our flasks with water from the river. The way forward is not difficult, the riverbank being largely free of obstructions that would halt our progress. Vegetation here is mainly low shrubbery, and the walking is easy. We do not halt until 19:00 or 20:00, when Holmes and I pitch the tent and build a fire, and Newton and Evans take rifles or a fishing line and attempt to find something with which to supplement our evening rations of hardtack and pemmican. Sometimes Holmes discovers some edible berries or salad leaves, and these provide welcome variety. Our exertions during the day have us tumbling into our blankets immediately after our meal. The next day, we do the same again.

 _30 August 1851_  
There was a fog yesterday, with the thermometer falling, which somewhat impeded our march, but by the late afternoon it was sunny and fine. We are often able to reach our daily goal of 30 miles.

 _3 September 1851  
_ A shower of rain fell steadily this day, soaking through our clothing and blankets. We are quite miserable, but as long as we keep on the move, we stay warm enough. Holmes has seen no sign of the party we are pursuing, and this fact is a worry. If they had been here, I feel certain Holmes’s preternatural powers of observation would discover evidence of that fact. Perhaps they branched off from the river path that we follow? And yet, why would they? For the river makes its way south, and allows for easy walking. Still, if their scurvy is advanced, as it must be after so many years, their minds may be compromised.

 _5 September 1851  
_ Yesterday ended in a clear northerly gale, so cold that the rain which had fallen during the day froze on the ground overnight. The highest degree of the thermometer being but 30°, and the lowest was 27°. With sheer ice now coating the ground, the chances of disastrous injury increase tenfold. Traversing such a landscape is almost insuperably difficult; and the whole progress that we could make in the morning was but four miles. Luckily, the sun emerged from the clouds around noon, and the ice soon melted, making travel again possible. If we meet with such conditions again, Holmes suggests that we drive nails through the soles of our boots, although I fear the resultant damp would but add to our discomfort.

 _7 September 1851  
_ This morning, we woke shivering and were obliged to dig the tent out of the snow before we could proceed. It had stormed during the night, and the temperature plunged to such a degree that sleet turned to ice and snow, and we too exhausted to notice. Our road was at first much encumbered with wreaths of snow from the gale, but by noon the weather had changed again, and the snow melted away in temperatures well above 40 degrees, so that we were forced to remove our thick woolen outercoats and walk in our shirtsleeves. It was an excellent demonstration, and reminder, of the changeable nature of arctic climes.

 _8 September 1851_  
We must decrease our consumption of the dwindling ship’s rations; or stop them altogether if at all possible. We will not turn ’round again and head north to the ship until we have located our quarry. We shall halt earlier in the day and allow more time for hunting. Today Evans bagged a brace of hares, and we eat heartily for now.

 _10 September 1851_  
Holmes has discovered a fire pit and campsite in a small natural hollow on the riverbank. He thinks it to be many months old, and to have been inhabited by five or ten men, European, but it is difficult to say with certainty.  As it was near to our usual stopping time, we set up camp in the very spot.

* * * * *

_12 September 1851  
Captain’s Log_

As we walk, words come easier. One foot in front of the other, one word follows the next, and none to see my face as I speak it. I should perhaps not say that it is easier – but it is less difficult. This afternoon there came a time when Bill and Jimmy were up 50 yards ahead, and Holmes just behind me, bringing up the rear. We had been silent for some time. The monotony of the march can sometimes induce a contemplative state, and so it had worked on me. Without thinking – without planning it – I found myself opening my mouth and speaking to Sherlock about Sholto: about James and I, and how we were together. There is a – a cold, dead weight in feeling such things, and never being able to speak them. I _can_ speak them, to Sherlock. God! There is no police to arrest me, no court to try me; there is no naval authority here to hang me for sodomy, for _I am_ the authority. I shall never be freer, and perhaps never speak so freely. I told Sherlock about our first meeting, and about the strange sympathy that seemed to exist between us from the start. I – I told him our story, every bit of it.

He listened. He did not pull back in disgust, nor did he scoff or flush or rage. He was kind. He was so very kind.

And then, giddy with the relief of being _seen_ – I kept on. I told him things I have not even told Mary about that terrible night in Guadeloupe when our ship took fire in the dead of night. I told him how, when I woke to find my cabin full of smoke, my first thought was of James. I told him how I ran to his cabin, how I found him ablaze and screaming. How the flesh hung off his face. How I see it now, in my dreams. How I grabbed him and smothered the flames, dragging him out even as he ordered me to leave him, to go back for Cookie and Chester – and Christ! – little Henry on the orlop deck! How his orders turned to pleas, and how he _begged_ me to see to his men and leave him. How I would not – would _not_ until he was on the dock, safe, far away from the flaming ship. And how by then, it was too late for the rest.

And then – the recriminations. The things he said to me in his grief, and in his shame and sorrow and pain. “This is God’s punishment, visited upon us,” he said. “You should have let me die.” “We should both be dead, if there were any justice in the world.” And worst of all, the words I hear in my dreams: “You let them die, against my orders. You are a murderer, John.” 

I think I feared that, hearing all, Sherlock too would think me a murderer. I shuddered with that fear, and that shame, and Holmes was silent.

One foot in front of the other.

I could not see his face.

Suddenly, hands grabbed at my shoulders and spun me around; Holmes stepped close and lobbed a series of strange questions at me, almost too rapidly to take in.

“From what type of wood was the ship built? How old was it? Had it ever been dry-docked? What was the precise distance between cabins? How many paces? How were the decks partitioned? How long did it take to sink? How did the other men escape? Why did Cookie and Chester not hear the alarm? Why was the boy in the orlop? What size were the bulkheads? Oho! Of what were they composed? Were your stores full, or depleted? Were the bedclothes of cotton? Linen? Wool? With what fabric was our clothing was made?” It went on and on, and I stammered out answers as best I could.

He was silent then for several minutes, and we resumed our pace, which had fallen off during our conversation. Our companions were almost out of sight ahead of us.

I glanced at him then. His lips were moving and he was muttering calculations to himself as he often does when he’s thinking hard.

Suddenly, he stopped dead in his tracks. “It would have happened anyway, John. They would have died either way – and had you gone back for them, you would have died with them, and Sholto too.”

“How – how can you know that?” I asked. Was this some poor attempt at comfort, this condescension? A wave of nameless emotion washed over me.

All at once, I was burning with rage. I grabbed onto his coat and shook him, hard. “ _How can you know?_ ”

He rolled his eyes and had the temerity to look bored. “I deduced from the facts. It is quite simple, the science of deduction, when one perfects one’s practice.”

I looked at him in astonishment for a full minute. And then I was laughing – laughing and crying and embracing him, all at once.

I could not speak coherently, and he looked rather taken aback at my response. Suddenly, he threw back his head and laughed, as well. Why, I do not know – nor, I suspect, does he. But I know that it was healing to laugh so, with him.

I will think long and hard upon his words.

* * * * *

 _Overland Expedition Log_  
_Resumed_  
_17 September 1851_

We are one month into our overland expedition, and must soon decide whether to return to the ship or risk being caught in the grip of an arctic winter without the protections the ship affords. It is unlikely in the extreme that we could survive a full season of such exposure. The same, however, might be said of Sholto and his men, who have already survived a winter since the Erebus went down.

 _23 September 1851  
_ The thermometer at night is about the freezing point. For the last two days we have made very slow progress; being compelled by the irregularities of the riverbank to perform circuits and navigate around obstacles, including some rocky and impassible cliffs. In eleven hours today, we traversed perhaps as few as 10 miles. As we make our way south, the river’s path grows more treacherous.

 _27 September 1851  
_ Progress continues slow. In our march today, we passed many small bays and points of land, and saw the blue mountains to the westward, perhaps five or six miles distant. Game remains plentiful, and we have been able to forgo ship’s rations for over a week.

* * * * *

 _Naturalist’s Log_  
27 September 1851

It was too tempting an opportunity to pass up. When Evans, Newton, and John were safely snoring in their blankets, I exited the tent (for I had contrived to position myself nearest the entrance), and pulled on my slops. I require less sleep than the other men, and I did not wish to trouble them, for they would be worried about my becoming lost – but it is a clear night, with moon and stars and bright aurora. I could not possibly lose my way. And then, the mountains are so close! I could not pass over the opportunity to observe them; to my knowledge, this part of the world has never been surveyed, and I shall chart as much of it as I can.

I followed the river upstream for a little more than an hour, and there I discovered a small tributary branching off to the southeast.

It struck me then quite forcibly that – idiotic though he has certainly been about a certain John Watson, the kindest, best, and bravest man to ever walk the earth – James Sholto is a man highly knowledgeable in naval history. Such a man would not undertake an expedition to the Arctic without reading all previous expedition logs. Would he not see this little tributary as a potential route southeast to the ironically-named Camp Victory, where Captain Montgomery Smith had cached supplies during his fateful expedition of 1834? Would he not take the gamble that a mere 100 miles of riverbed trekking to the southeast would bring him and his men to a store of food and supplies that could mean the difference between life and death to them?

I am willing to bet that he would take that gamble – but I shall present the idea to Captain Watson in the morning, and we shall see what he makes of it.  

I took the usual measurements and observations, and ascertained the general figure and extent of the tributary, scouting up as far as I thought prudent. It is evidently a shallow piece of water. I then returned to camp for a few hours of sleep. We shall discuss this in the morning.

* * * * *

 _Overland Expedition Log_  
_Resumed_  
_28 September 1851_

Based upon new information provided by naturalist Holmes (who has apparently taken it upon himself to act as party scout), we today turned off from the main river and headed southeast along a small tributary, believing the Sholto group may be making for a cache of food and provisions left by the Smith expedition of 1834. It is a sound theory, for Sholto has a comprehensive knowledge of the naval history of the arctic, and surely has a mental map of every cache known to exist within 1000 miles.

Before turning from our intended path, I ordered a large cairn of rocks piled up, and deposited a message with details as to our new route. If we should be lost, Lestrade will at least find us easy to track.

Thus buoyed up with new hope, we marched hard for four or five hours in a southeasterly direction. The path grew rocky and difficult as we entered the foothills of the mountains we had observed yesterday.  

At approximately 13:45, Evans – who was then acting as point-man and marching almost a half mile ahead of the rest of us – whooped an alert. We rushed forward to meet him, our hearts in our throats, to find him standing beside a tumbled-down cairn built in the European style. Wordlessly, he pointed at a small piece of wood that had been fashioned into the shape of a cross. A Christian grave, then, but a nameless one. We removed our hats.

After a few moments of respectful silence, I ordered a sweep of the area. Perhaps there would be other indications of the survivors – perhaps even a message deposited somewhere close by. I sent Holmes upriver, while Evans, Newton and I fanned out from the bank. We were to walk one hour, and then turn back to our meeting place. As it turns out, though, it was less than 10 minutes later that Newton’s strong halloo called us all back.

We found him standing speechless in the middle of a silent, shabby habitation – it could hardly be called a camp. There was a single, ratty tent – naval issue – standing on the top of some rising ground, large and made with a ridge pole resting on a perpendicular pole at the other end – small ropes extended from top tent at each end to the ground where the rope ends were fast to sticks that had been driven into the ground.  There was a fire pit with an abandoned kettle a few yards from the tent, and some small detritus still scattered about. No one answered our calls. Newton poked his head into the tent, and came reeling back looking stricken. Evans absently poked at something with his booted foot, and jumped back in alarm when Holmes bent to pick it up, for it was a human skull.

What we discovered today was horror: the bodies of the dead, and no living men. Some of the bodies lay in the tent, others were scattered about in different directions. This was bad enough – but there was worse to come. For from the mutilated state of many of the bodies, and the contents of the kettle, it is evident that our wretched countrymen had been driven to the last dread alternative as a means of sustaining life.

In the tent we found blankets, bedding, and several skeleton bones – the flesh all off, nothing except sinews attached to them. One body lay on the floor, looking flayed, and preserved horribly by the cold. A final man lay on the ground on his back. He must have been the last to die, for his body alone is unmarked. I do not recognize his features; he is, at least, not Sholto.

We retreated back to the stone cairn after making a careful search for any survivors – of which there is no indication. None of us wished to stay in that terrible place any longer than necessary. We must sleep; none of us wants a meal now. We will sleep, and hope for an absence of dreams, and when we wake we shall attempt to understand this chaos. I will have Holmes conduct a detailed examination, first, for we must learn all we can about the circumstances leading up to this tragedy, and if any man can endure such a task, it surely is he.  While he does his work, the rest of us shall perform our final solemn mission task, and begin to dig some graves.

* * * * *

_The annatko tells what happened to Aklaq at the qallunaat death camp near Kittigazuit_

Aklaq and her son went to the tent and among the frozen mass of human bones and bodies that were lying around in it she saw one qallunaat body that had a bright white chain around the neck. She knew at once that it was made of precious metal, for some of the other Inuit had come into possession of similar qallunaat treasures by way of trade or discovery. The body of this man was lying on one side, and was imbedded in solid ice from head to feet. The way the chain was about the neck and running down one side of the body indicated that there was more beneath it; and therefore, to remove it, she found a difficult and disagreeable task before her. Neither she nor her son had any instrument with them that they would use for any such purpose as was desired; therefore, while the son was seeking around, she procured a heavy sharp stone, and with this chipped away the ice from all round the body until it was released. Aklaq could never forget the dreadful, fearful feeling she had all the time while engaged doing this; for, besides the tent being filled with frozen corpses – some entire and some mutilated with flesh cut off with knives and hatchets – this man who had the metal she sought seemed to her to have been the last that died, and his face was just as though he were only asleep. All the while she was at work breaking the ice near the head, especially the ice about the face, she felt very bad, and for this reason had to stop several times. She was very careful not to touch any part of the body while pounding with the sharp stone, and thus risk angering the spirit Atshen who lived in this place now, possessing men with his evil and compelling them to consume their brothers. At last, after having pounded away the ice from around and under the body, her son helped her to lift it out of its icy bed. Still she was troubled to get the chain away from the frozen garments with which the body was completely dressed.

* * * * *

 _Naturalist’s Log_  
29 September 1851

There are significant difficulties inherent in performing any forensic analysis of this tableau, although I am attempting to be as accurate as possible: there is the evidence of the actions of men who died here, and this is overlaid with evidence of extensive animal activity, of climactic variability, of the passage of time, and then of other human intervention, for I believe at least one Esquimeau has been here since the men all died. I am recording all evidence in detailed field notes (appended). There is a strange and keen satisfaction in drawing stories from the bones.

We discovered one body in the cairn about 50 yards outside the camp – probably the first of the survivors to die. This evidence of Christian burial indicates that the site was occupied for a prolonged period. In the beginning, the situation may not have been so desperate, but it grew worse with time, as the men sickened and starved. This much is clear to me: the men who died in the tent were the perpetrators, not the victims, of cannibalism. Although many of the remains in the tent were mutilated, that damage was mostly done post-mortem by foxes or wolves. The sawed and cracked bones found in the kettle were from other bodies, which were discarded outside the tent. As would be expected, the macabre work of dismemberment was done outside. There is a large stump that has been used as a sort of butcher block.

One other thing is clear, and it is vital. _There are not enough bodies to account for all the Erebus survivors_. There is the intact, frozen body in the tent, the grave under the cairn which contains 1 body, 4 skulls discovered strewn about in the ice and snow outside the tent, and two others – in the kettle. That is 8 men accounted for, and we track 11.

It is a vast relief to me that I have some good news to share with John. He is almost catatonic with the horror of it, moving like an automaton. Perhaps this will shake him into action, which is where he thrives. I shall strive to help him focus his energies on what must now be done, and take upon myself the task of cataloging the terrible events of the past.

* * * * *

_The annatko continues, after telling Aklaq’s story:_

We watched these bad qallunaat for many days. Erktua, who watched the qallunaat’s umiak sink beneath the sea at Tuktuujaqrtuuq, said they were harmless now, that they would die soon, but I do not think that they are ever harmless, and I followed them sometimes, tracked them sometimes, and looked in on them as they made their slow, slow trek to the south. Aklaq and her son came with me sometimes, and sometimes I went alone, or they did. I wanted to make sure they were truly harmless, or I would kill them myself.  

Even before they made their death camp, some of them already didn’t seem to be right. They were very thin, and their mouths were hard and black. They had no fur clothing on, and no snow goggles. Sometimes Aklaq’s son would feel pity, watching them, and would try to help some of these people who seemed not quite right, but they refused all help. They would grab at him and burst out screaming in words we could not understand. So we left them to themselves, and only watched them.

After a while, their movements became very slow. They stopped for some days and made their camp. Three of them brought wood and meat to the camp while the others stayed inside. One man died, and they buried him there, under the earth, right outside camp, his head pointing east. They did not even perform naasiivik, and that is when their camp became a death camp.

After that, the three strongest men departed, moving south along the river. We decided to let them go. They were dying. They were all dying.

* * * * *

_Captain’s Log  
30 September 1851_

I must make plans. Holmes asks for instructions. I must master myself. I should have considered this eventuality, but – _Sholto_? He, so good and honorable? He who strives always to be better? I cannot think of this horror and that man as anything but diametrically opposed. The man I know cannot have countenanced this.  

My mind is – it is in disarray, and will not obey my wishes. It will only tell me terrible stories about what has happened here, dark imaginings that leave me retching and shaking in the snow.

Some of the larger thigh bones have been cracked, to get at the marrow. Some of the skulls have holes punched in them – with an ice chisel, Sherlock thinks – to get at

I cannot –

 _Did_ he…? I cannot believe it of him, but then again – _wouldn’t I_?

We pitch our tent 200 yards upriver. I will not spend a night in this place of the dead.

* * * * *

_Ship’s Log, Lestrade reporting  
30 September 1851_

The ice master has kept a careful eye to the sea, but our channel thus far remains open, despite occasional formations of young ice and even pancake ice. We send scouts south along the river every day with instructions to fire off shots at regular intervals, but no sign of the rescue party’s return yet appears. I find it prudent to prepare for another winter here on the ice. This little bay provides more protection from the elements than did our last wintering location, and game is more plentiful. Every able man is now engaged in hunting and fishing, and every sick man has a hand in butchering or salting the meat. We must increase our stores substantially. I wish to have nothing but positive reports for Captain Watson upon his return.

* * * * *

_Ship’s Log, Lestrade reporting  
1 October 1851_

At 02:00 this morning, and with shocking force, the ice was upon us. Anderson on watch in the crow’s nest somehow failed to call a warning before a large berg knocked us violently from the north. All rushing on deck, we saw that in order to prevent the ship from being driven on shore, our entire reliance lay in maintaining unimpaired our connection with the berg; this was strengthened by one nine inch, three six and two five inch halsers, and a stream chain, two of which were passed round it and secured. In this state we were still borne onward, about eighty yards from the shore, the ship sustaining heavy pressure particularly at stern and rudder — the latter was seriously damaged. Numerous large masses were sunk beneath the ship in the frightful melee in which we were engaged, when about 04:45 it temporarily subsided. She then lay perfectly cradled in the ice, huge masses of it having been forced under her keel, which raised her three feet at the bow, and upwards of five feet at the stern. Masses of flinty hardness still pressing heavily on the port side, banked us up between them and the berg, which threw the ship over several degrees; and thus in utter helplessness we awaited the next movement.

In the meantime, the state of the rudder demanded our attention— it was already seriously damaged, and its safety still further jeopardized by the heavy blocks of ice that surrounded it. To unship it was then our object, but from the ice having got under and around it, so as to completely block it up, this became a matter of extreme difficulty. Some of the ice was removed by pickaxe and ice chisels, but it was ultimately found necessary to have recourse to gunpowder for clearing away the remainder.

We were loath to attempt such a dangerous maneuver without our blasting expert Holmes, but Donovan has been his reluctant protégé in much of the ice work, and supervised the blast most satisfactorily. After some hours work, we succeeded in extricating the rudder; this ponderous, unwieldly implement was placed on the deck, and the carpenter commenced the necessary repairs.

I shall never forget the sensation I experienced during the short period of this terrible conflict. Every timber in the ship groaned in the most direful and ominous language of complaint, the masts shook, and as I stood on the quarter-deck, the planks beneath my feet vibrated as if in the act of starting up. And I – I responsible.

The ship has been carried from ten fathoms water into three and a half; but is nowhere in contact with the shore, as she is now perfectly cradled in the ice. In this state we remain. I’ve ordered all hands to keep knapsacks in readiness for any sudden emergency. The remainder of the day, one of anxiety and watching, closed in cold, wild, cheerless, and squally.

It is now clear that the season for navigating the ice-bound sea has drawn to a close. The first operation of a ship going into winter quarters has therefore now commenced, under my orders, with the making of the fire-hole. In doing so we penetrated four and a half feet of closely packed ice before reaching the water— the depth of the cradle in which the ship now lies.

* * * * *

 _Private diary_  
_Miss Molly Hooper_  
_1 October 1851_

A lady took a great fancy to a young wolf, or a bear, I forget which – but a bear, or a wolf, I believe it was. It was made her a present of when a cub. She was kind to it, for it was kind to her, and she treated it with great tenderness; and would play with it without fear or apprehension of danger: and it was obedient to all her commands: and its tameness, as she used to boast, increased with its growth; so that, like a lap-dog, it would follow her all over the house. But mind what followed: at last, somehow having disobliged it, it on a sudden fell upon her, and devoured her. – And who was most to blame, I pray? The beast, or the lady? The lady – surely. For all the bear did was follow its own nature.

Ah! I can write no more of this nonsense to myself. I shall put my papers and letters in a little box, and put that box in a drawer, and lock that drawer with a key. The key I shall keep. Some time hence when all this is over, and I can better bear to read them, I may take that key and open that drawer and take up that box and retrieve my papers. I shall preserve them, for we often look back with pleasure even upon the heaviest griefs, when the cause of them is removed.

* * * * *

_Ship’s Log, Lestrade reporting  
2 October 1851_

The weather continues cold and raw, with some snow and strong north-westerly winds. Along with our fateful iceberg, winter appears to have arrived. Our men are variously employed collecting driftwood along the beach (the availability of which is itself an improvement over our last winter), for the distance of several miles. Others are occupied collecting stones from the neighbouring hills, and stacking them on the beach for ballast, that they might be made available for the following season. The men now refer to our location by the name of Ballast Beach. The river south they call Watson’s Way.

We have taken our seasonal survey of the stores. Excepting some small damage done by the remaining damp in the bread room, formerly mentioned, the only important discovery was a strange loss of candles. We had not properly secured the storeroom in question, and it seems an Arctic fox or some other creature such as a lemming has slipped in unobserved and opened some of the boxes and devoured the contents. This is not a dangerous loss, but inconvenient in the extreme, given the approaching months of darkness. Perhaps if we can manage to shoot a few of the slippery seals, we can render the blubber for more lamp oil.

We still continue our shooting and exploring expeditions with much eagerness, and better success than our last overwintering gave us reason to hope. Ptarmigan frequently reward our labours. A beautiful specimen of a falcon was shot on the 5th, when flying over the ship. On the 6th, a bear with two cubs were observed from the ship, on the ice, coming towards the shore; after wandering about on the floe for a short time sniffing the air in their usual style, they sagaciously betook themselves to flight, and spoiled our anticipated sport. A black fox was also seen by one of our men, on the land (the first of that species we had met with) but which fled at the report of his gun, when firing at a small pack of ptarmigan. Another bear was encountered upwards of a mile inland, by two men, who wounded him, and hastened his journey to the beach, whence he proceeded over the ice.

* * * * *

 _Overland Expedition Log_  
_Resumed_  
_3 October 1851_

Holmes has performed a careful analysis of all the bones and bodies we found. Several, he was able to identify by some arcane physical detail, but others were too far – destroyed – to be identifiable. I bade him reconstruct these men, as best he is able, that they may be buried with as much human dignity as possible. Mackenzie, he identified by the characteristic torus fracture of his right arm: common, apparently, in ship carpenters. The boy, Charles, was easier to identify, his smaller body obvious even to me. Several others were nothing more than piles of anonymous bone: to this, we are all reduced, I know – but it is profane to see it. Sholto, we think, is not here. Holmes is confident he would have been able to identify his body based upon the information I provided him as to broken bones, etc. Further, his signet ring – which he never removed, ever – is not here. He must be one of the three who are unaccounted for, and this provides me some relief. We sorted the grisly relics as best we could, and interred them with an awful solemnity. I recited the Prayer for the Dead, and that was the end.

* * * * *

_Captain’s Log  
3 October 1851_

Thank God! Thank God, he is not here. The horror of believing him here, of imagining him as witness to this! And thinking of his terrible end! I feel as though I can breathe again, and only hope that he has not been consigned to some worse fate.

I have had reason before, and no doubt I will have again, to thank God for the miracle of Sherlock Holmes’s magnificent intelligence.

* * * * *

 _Overland Expedition Log_  
_Resumed_  
4 October 1851

We have tarried too long in this terrible place, and must now to action. The land is cold – frozen almost to iron hardness. Evans turned his ankle digging the third shallow grave with his inadequate trowel. He cannot walk, but hobbles, instead, with a make-shift crutch. His ankle is swollen to more than twice its usual size, so that he can barely get his boot on. It is a danger for frostbite and gangrene if I have ever seen one. I have determined to send Newton and Evans back to the ship, while Holmes and I carry on in search of the three remaining Erebus men. We will move faster this way, for while they are strong, we are quick and nimble, and we consume less. We shall take the small tent, sending the larger back with them. We have blankets and slops, some provisions, and rifles and ammunition. We should not stand a chance of surviving winter exposure out on the ice, but here, inland, our odds are much better. We are in agreement: we must go on.

 _5 October 1851  
_ Newton and Evans departed north at 06:00, and only upon my direct orders and over their strenuous protest. We left shortly after, and how glad we were to put that terrible place, with its air of brutality and desperation, far behind us. With just the two of us, we gained seven miles on this day's journey, in spite of a strong cold wind and constant snow. Holmes sees signs that men have passed this way before us.

 _6 October 1851  
_ After starting at 06:00, we proceeded in spite of a very cold fall of snow, until almost 20:00. Carrying my rifle, I shot three ptarmigan over the course of the day, and saw a white fox, but did not kill it. We must now melt snow to drink, and carry our flasks under our slops to keep them from freezing. With wood plentiful, however, we are able to build a small fire at night, which adds greatly to our comfort as well as being the means by which we cook our fowl. We are not quite so desperate yet, as to eat raw flesh. Ah, I cannot write such a thing now without a shudder of revulsion.

 _7 October 1851  
_ Today passed several low points and islands of limestone. The sun had a great effect on the snow, and the aspect of the land was hourly changing. The last part of our journey was unusually laborious, from wedged masses of ice along the riverbed, so packed as to denote the great violence which they had undergone in the sudden freezing; but we at length passed them all, and encamped. Holmes tells me that at noon the thermometer was at 47°, and at midnight at 32°. He somehow contrived to snare a pair of lemmings today; they were somewhat unpleasant to eat. I write this in the tent as hailstones pound around us. I pray the tent is not damaged.

 _8 October 1851_  
It was a difficulty of another kind which we encountered today, as the heavy ice was pressed up to the precipices along the riverbank, and we were often obliged to quit a tolerable track, to get round them in the best manner that we could. But the labour kept us warm and we made eleven miles. We pitched by 19:30, spending an hour or so in quiet conversation.

* * * * *

9 October 1851

Mrs. M. Hudson  
78 St Cross Road  
Winchester

Dear Mrs. Hudson,

I trust you will excuse the intrusion of this letter. We are not ourselves acquainted, but share a common acquaintance in one Miss Margaret Hooper.

Perhaps you have heard about her recent change in circumstances with the death of Mr. Hooper? What you will not have heard, I suspect, is the grave financial state in which the irresponsible man has thrust her, whether through inattention and ignorance or through malice, I know not and care less. It is deplorable. Forgive my frankness, but I cannot be generous to that man.

In short: Molly is near destitute, and very ill. Her father has left her nothing but a mountain of debt. She does not even own Chesterton House, for it has been promised to Worthington’s upon his death, and she must be out within a fortnight. Believe me when I say that the circumstances of this transaction are quite sordid, and he was lucky that the details did not reach the press.

Molly requires absolute rest, for she has had an exceedingly trying time of it. I fear she is on the verge of complete nervous collapse, and any further strain on her will be calamitous.

I know you keep a country house that lets rooms – would you, perhaps, take her for a month? I enclose payment here for her room and board, and will bring her up by private carriage if you are amenable. If you know Molly at all, and if you knew her brute of a father, you will understand the affection with which I regard her, and will do your best for her.

Yours most humbly and sincerely,

Dr. Joseph Bell  
#9 Harley Street  
London

* * * * *

_Naturalist’s Log  
8 October 1851_

I confess that I am struggling to maintain proper scientific rigour and discipline – even regular logging of activities and observations. This is the most physically difficult period I have endured in my life, and I include in that estimation my first weeks aboard _Investigator_. It is not the march itself that is difficult, nor the cold, which is not as extreme as we have experienced heretofore. It is the relentless, monotonous _grind_ of it. I am a man who sprints, and this marathon wears at me dreadfully, body and mind. I am also very sore. Sore to my bones, and beginning to bruise in a way that has me digging through snowdrifts and hunting among frozen grasses for traces of last year’s sorrel and coltsfoot when I should be snaring lemmings and rabbits. Perhaps my body is simply exhausted, or perhaps –

In any case, I believe our pursuit nears an end. I have been seeing increasing indications of human activity for several days, although I have not mentioned this fact to John. There is an Esquimeaux encampment ahead, I am sure of it: two or three days’ journey, I estimate. If Sholto has made it this far, he must be there – he and his two companions – unless he is buried somewhere in a drift of snow.

I should wish him dead, should I not? I certainly used to, for he was my rival in the only fight that has ever mattered in my life. But it is so different here. _I_ am so different here. There is no fight, and there are no rivals. Sholto is a good man, I know, or John – _my_ John – would not love him. And so, I wish only – life. One must strive so mightily to preserve it. In this place, especially, I cannot wish otherwise.

Nights in our little tent are short, for we are asleep almost the instant we lie down, but these hard, cold, uncomfortable nights, curled together for warmth and comfort: they are also my happiest, for we are together. I would follow him to the ends of the earth – indeed, I suppose I have – for less than this.

We near the final chapter. Whatever comes, I pray that it won’t break him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for violence and (past) cannibalism.  
> Some of the words in Molly’s entries are taken from Clarissa’s mad letters; some of the overland passages are inspired by Narrative of a Second Voyage in Search of a North-west Passage (James Clark Ross).  
> SUPER DUPER thanks to redscudery, who beta'd TWO drafts of this chapter in as many days. That was seriously above and beyond the call of duty. xoxo  
> NOTE: The next chapter will be up as soon as possible. I'm being SLAMMED by my day job right now, and have very limited writing time. I don't want to rush the next chapter and have the quality suffer. Drop me a line on tumblr if you're wondering how it's going -- but believe me: writing the last chapters of this fic is, like, the only thing I actually want to be doing. Damn real life!!!


	9. October – December 1851

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The darkest days of the coldest season approach.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains a potentially triggering (but very brief) depiction of sexual violence.

_Aklaq speaks to her son after they depart the death camp at Kittigazuit:_

Stories are powerful, and some are very dangerous, very frightening. You have to be careful who you tell them to, and when, and how. Do you know the tale of Igimarasugdjuqdjuaq? It was told to me by my mother’s father, but it is older even than that. I have never told it before.

Igimarasugdjuqdjuaq was a very large and very strong man. He did many wrong things. He hurt his wife. He committed many murders and even ate the flesh of his victims after he cut them up with his knife. Once upon a time his sister-in-law came to visit his wife, but scarcely had she entered the hut before Igimarasugdjuqdjuaq killed her and commanded his wife to cook her.

His wife was very much frightened, fearing that she herself would be the next victim, and resolved to make her escape. When Igimarasugdjuqdjuaq left to go hunting she gathered heather, stuffed her jacket with it, and placed the figure in a sitting position upon the bed. Then she ran away as fast as she could and succeeded in reaching her father’s village. When her husband came home and saw the jacket he believed that it was a stranger who had come to visit him and stabbed him through the body. When he discovered, however, that his wife had deceived and left him, he fell into a passion and pursued her.

He came to the village and said: “Have you seen my wife? She has run away.” The Inuit did not tell him that she had fled to them, but concealed her from his wrath. At last Igimarasugdjuqdjuaq gave her up for lost and returned home.

The Inuit, however, resolved to revenge the many outrages which he had wrought. They went to visit him and met him on the ice just below his hut. When he told them he was going bear hunting they said: “Let us see your spear.” This spear had a stout and sharp walrus tusk for a point. “Ah,” said they; “that is good for bear hunting; how sharp it is. You must hit him just this way.” And so saying they struck his brow, the point of the spear entering his brain. Then they cut the body up with their knives and scattered it in four directions.

This is the law: once you have eaten human meat, you can never return to the dwellings of men. I think that this must be the law for Inuit and qallunaat alike.

* * * * *

 _Ship’s Log_  
_Gregory Lestrade writing_  
_9 October 1851_

I have determined that the usual winter preparations of housing in and snowing the upper deck should be deferred for another two or three weeks, with a view of economizing the lights which are becoming scarce, our provisions of both lamp oil and candles now sorely depleted. When daylight is no longer available and the true Arctic winter begins, we shall hastily complete these operations – with any luck, for the final time. Temperatures below deck are thus colder than usual, and below what we would expect for comfort’s sake. For coal, we are limited to 8 to 12 lbs per day, and see that they are carefully burned in those periods of the day in which it is most necessary to have a fire.  The men have taken to sleeping in doubled woolen layers.

From this date, I have placed the men on half rations from ship’s stores, which consist of four and a half ounces of vegetables daily, ten ounces of meat daily, but making due allowance for bone in the salt, and jelly in the fresh meat, the average weight does not exceed eight ounces, and a further twelve ounces of flour for hardtack. Tea, cocoa and sugar are issued by the half ounce, although full rations of rum still remain. Stamford protests that this allowance is quite inadequate to maintain health for any lengthened period, particularly when exposed to the rigorous severity of intense cold; however, game remains plentiful enough. We may be hungry, but as long as we can hunt, we will not starve.

It only remains for us, therefore, to bear with patience and fortitude the privations inseparable from our situation; to hope for strength and courage to meet and overcome those still greater which may await us; and to carry out our duties, in our respective departments with all zeal and energy. We trust that the rescue party will return to us shortly, and that they will bring good tidings of the Erebus survivors.

We cannot light the exterior of the ship indefinitely in the ever-lengthening darkness, but continue to sound off guns every hour through the long night, and trust this will be sufficient to guide them home to us.

* * * * *

 _Overland Expedition Log, Resumed_  
_Recorded by Captain John Watson_  
_10 October 1851_

We continue on. Holmes believes he has seen signs of past human activity in the area, but thus far we have found no men, European or Esquimeax. Holmes is a most observant tracker – truly, the best I have seen. If anyone can find Sholto and his remaining men, it is surely him.  

* * * * *

_10 October 1851  
Captain’s Log_

We must be close – very close. And yet, the suspense, for me, is gone. I walk towards the inevitable, and whatever we find, we find. I have been numb for days now: since the death camp, I believe. It is the cold, but it is more than that. The circumstances of my life have habituated me to feeling and not speaking. Now – I feel nothing whatever.  

* * * * *

 _Ship’s Log_  
_Lestrade writing_  
_10 October 1851_

I’ve ordered every man who can hold a gun out to shore daily in search of game; today a deer was shot, and a number of ptarmigan. The men have full permission to eat immediately half of what they kill, provided they distribute it equally amongst themselves. The other half is laid on for winter. I have sent a three-man party out northeast onto the ice in search of seals: for a quantity of seal blubber, rendered down to oil, would provide excellent fuel for our lamps and help to stave off the coming darkness for a few more days or weeks. This could make an immeasurable difference to the crew’s morale this winter. The party has taken a large sledge and provisions for a week, but I cannot estimate the likelihood of their success, for our luck with seals has never been great.

If difficulties are encountered and privations endured in hunting in the Arctic during the summer months, I need not say how many are added when the days are short and twilight reigns. Often, true night falls while we are still at the chase, and the land is shrouded in darkness—moon and starlight alone enabling us faintly to discern the outline of the object of which we are in eager and anxious pursuit.

* * * * *

10 October 1851

Mr. Christopher Foster, Solicitor  
317 White Oaks, London

Dear Sir,

I have not troubled you since Mr. Hudson’s death, and I have no doubt you will be surprised to hear from me now. As you will remember, I swore never to touch the inheritance, and I never have. I have made my own way in the world, taking nothing from _him_ but his surname, and that most unwillingly.

However, a situation has arisen that requires a significant financial outlay and I wish now to draw upon the interest. You shall try to talk me out of it, young man, and I shall refuse, and you shall follow my directions exactly, for my mind is quite made up. I will be in London in three days’ time, and shall call upon you early in the day on 14 October to give my instructions.

Sincerely,

Mrs. Martha Hudson

* * * * *

 _Ship’s Surgeon’s Log  
10 October 1852_  

As winter’s cold and dark again approach, the specter of scurvy raises its head once more. Our fresh sorrel leaves provided excellent relief during the brief months of summer, but it lies not in my power to provide the necessary amounts – or even a full diet – to the men now in my care. Whether or not the small quantity of leaves I was able to dry will have a salubrious effect, I cannot say, but regardless, there is not enough to see us through a month, let alone an entire winter. So scanty is the remaining lime, that I can only give it in the most sparing quantity, and cannot continue its administration sufficiently long to be permanently beneficial—merely allaying the more urgent scorbutic symptoms—in a few of the men most affected. Even with a more liberal supply, it would be next to an impossibility to eradicate the disease entirely, or to establish permanent good results, the same causes for its production being still present; neither could I give sufficient support to the system when improvement did take place, and they began to rally from their state of languor and prostration.  I fully expect the scurvy to be worse this winter and, I fear, more deadly – for although the men recovered reasonably well over the course of the summer, yet they are not as well as they could be, and we begin the difficult season in worse general health.

* * * * *

 _Overland Expedition Log_  
_Recorded by Captain John Watson_  
_11 October 1851_

It was almost 18:00 today, the world in twilight, we came upon two snow huts – igloos as the Esquimeax call them – built up perhaps twenty or thirty yards from the edge of the tributary. They had tumbled in upon themselves during the brief summer melt, but enough of the structures remained that they were identifiable as dwellings. Still, covered as they are now with fresh snow, I would have missed their presence altogether, so much did they look like simple snowbanks, but Holmes’s wizardry identified them almost upon first sight. We called out, and were met with only an eerie silence.

Upon further investigation of the settlement, we discovered evidence of terrible violence. In the remains of one snow hut were the frozen and horribly mutilated bodies of four persons, all savages: two children (one little more than an infant), a woman, and an elderly man. As regards to what has happened to them, we do not yet know.

In the other hut, two European sailors lay side by side, as if sleeping, their throats cut down to the bone. Sholto himself was nowhere to be seen – dead or alive.

We do not know what has happened. Upon the chest of one, was placed the appended letter, under a rock.

* * * * *

_May 1851 – I believe it to be May but am not certain._

I have done it. I have done the needful thing. Perhaps it was also the just thing; I cannot say. I only know that it was needful. I thought --.

Ah. We English! We imagine ourselves to be a great race – a great and civilized nation! We dare to conquer! We dare to demand the esteem, the respect of the world, to claim dominion over them! We dare to claim superiority over our fellows, as if we are better, stronger, more Godly. Pah! It is lies. It is all lies. The Empire is _hollow_ ; as hollow as we men who are fools enough to believe in it.  

We are no more than animals: rutting and gorging and killing in our viciousness, in our madness. I understand, finally. Like poorly-trained dogs, when our master turns his back, we revert to our true natures. The instant I depart to hunt, my men –.

There is only one remedy for a mad dog. I have carried out that remedy as my principles required, but I sicken with it, with our corruption. I am the commander, and I am responsible. Their actions are mine.

Those who are too sick to live in the world without harming it must be wise enough, and brave enough, to face up to self-slaughter. I am sorry. Good bye. God bless you. I shall see it through.

 _James Sholto, Captain_.

* * * * *

_Naturalist’s Log  
11 October 1851_

I did what I could to shield him from the worst of it, but by God – it was very bad.

I saw the ruined _igloos_ long before he did, of course, and sought to investigate them before he could notice my activity. I do not wish to conceal truths from him, but I would soften them, if I can. The first was – it was a bloodbath, imperfectly preserved in the changing weather, and all the more terrible for that. I did not take the time to investigate fully, for John was approaching and I wished to prevent him from coming closer. Something frightful happened here.

“Several Esquimeaux are dead,” I said only. “There is nothing we can do now for them.”

“And in the other?” he asked. He seemed strangely blank.

I conducted a cursory examination of the second structure while he watched from a distance, and returned to him a few moments later with the letter.

“Sholto is not here,” I said immediately. He made no reaction.

I handed him the letter. “There are two dead sailors, but not Sholto.”

I watched him closely as he read the letter. His strange and unnatural calm worries me greatly.

He read the letter through once, and then read it aloud for my benefit, still betraying no emotion. His face, though, was very pale.

“What –” he paused to clear his throat. “What did he do?” He looked at me with such blankness, such complete apathy, that I was chilled.

“He killed them, John. He killed his men.” I tried to be gentle: as gentle as I am capable of being, at any rate.

He nodded. “And the others? The Esquimeaux?”

I shrugged. “They were also killed, but I cannot say by whom. We can extrapolate from the letter that –”

John shook his head. “They wouldn’t. British sailors – _his_ men – wouldn’t slaughter civilians. Not even savages.”

I said nothing, but he must have read my thoughts on my face: when death knocks, men become brutal and unpredictable.

“They wouldn’t, Sherlock,” he said again. I almost wished he would be angry with me, then, but his voice was flat and his eyes were empty.

John went, then, and examined both _igloos_ while I walked up another hundred yards and pitched our tent for the night. I gathered brushwood and built a small fire. After a while, when John had still not come, I made tea – two cups, with all of our remaining sugar in his – and went in search of him. He was standing between the two igloos, that same blank look still on his face. I handed him his tea, which he took and drank without a word.

“In the morning, we can start our search for the –. For Sholto,” I said. I had the idea that he would not be far. “I can track him. We will discover him and properly bury him.”

“No,” John said, finally looking at me. “No. He made his choice. He is gone, Sherlock. They are all gone.”

He let me take his hand, then, and lead him back to our camp, although he kept Sholto’s last letter clasped firmly in his other.

He ate a little when I put food before him, and lay at my side in silence all through the night. I do not know if he slept. I certainly did not.  

* * * * *

_Naturalist’s Log  
12 October 1851_

It was not a restful night, but we rose at 05:00 and by mutual agreement began to search out stones – a task made difficult by the darkness of the season. We cannot bury the dead; we must build up a cairn to mark their place. I also took the opportunity to snare a couple of arctic hare. I must force John to eat.

We finished the cairn at 17:30. It stands between the two _igloos_ , which we covered over with more snow.

We stood together, when it was finished, and I waited for John to perform his office and speak the Prayer for the Dead. After a time, I glanced at him. He was staring at the cairn with a face devoid of any emotion, eyes both dry and dead.

I did not know what to do. I could not speak that prayer.

“Toll for the Brave!” I quoted finally. “The Brave that are no more.”

He nodded, once, and that was the end of it.

* * * * *

_Kingmiatook, who escaped with one child, speaks of the terrible deeds of the mad qallunaat:_

At this time we had built our two iglus on the west side of Anjikuni. We were there to hunt the earliest spring deer at Kivalliq as they came down through Kazan River. When the qallunaat came, the strongest men, Siluk and Tukkuttok, were out hunting. We wives, me and Qannik, we and our children, and one elder too old to keep up with the young men, were left in camp. At that time, the three qallunaat came to the camp. When they entered the camp, all the Inuit were inside one of the iglus; we started hearing voices outside. Little Qannik, Siluk’s second wife, said, “the hunters are here – they’re back already.” We didn’t expect them for many days yet. She went out to see them, but she came back very shaky and said, “they’re not Inuit; they’re not human.” Everyone got scared, very, very scared, and no one wanted to go outside.

But the old man, Eqilaglu, when he heard something outside the iglu, he went out to investigate. When he saw what was there, he said to himself, “No, I have never seen anything like this.”

He said to himself, “I’ve never in my life seen a devil or a spirit. I am not annatko. If things are not human, I cannot see them. I have never in all my life seen any kind of spirit – I’ve heard the sounds they make, but I’ve never seen them with my own eyes. I can see these creatures. Therefore these are not spirits.”

Eqilaglu went over to touch one, to feel if it was cold or warm. He had thought to himself, “if they are human, I can feel them. I if they are human, they will be warm. If devils or spirits, they will have no heat.” So he touched a cheek with his hand: it was cool, but not as cold as a fish. They were beings, but not Inuit. They were beings, but he didn’t know what they were.

These beings seemed disoriented – not too interested in us, more aware of the iglu building; touching it. The old man invited them inside and we women tried to give them something to eat: seal meat that was cut up small, and we gave them water to drink. The beings drank the water. But when we tried to give them seal meat, they’d take a bite and then spit it out. We gave them soup, and they took a little of that.

Eqilaglu instructed us to bring these beings to the other iglu – the empty one. They did not seem dangerous but they were palakhonguliqtut – getting weak, weak from hunger – and they seemed very strange. They fell asleep in their iglu.

After a long, long time, one of the beings came out of the iglu and called to us in strange words that we could not understand. The old man was sleeping now, but I went out with Osha asleep on my back because I was less afraid than the other women.

The being made it known to me with motions of his hands that he wanted water, which I gave to him. He showed me with his body that he was cold, and pointed that the others were cold, too. In this way, we learned that they were men like us, and that they could feel the cold.

I bid him wait, and returned to the iglu. We talked it over for a long time: what best to do with these strange men. I did not think they were strong enough to hurt us, even if they wanted to, but Qannik was still affected by the shock of first seeing them, and was afraid for the children, and for herself. In the end, we decided to bring them into our warm igloo, where we could watch over them and observe their actions.

This was not a right decision. I am sorry for what came.

* * * * *

 _Overland Expedition Log, Resumed_  
_Recorded by Sherlock Holmes_  
_13 October 1851_

I assume log duties at the behest of Captain Watson, whose left hand has sustained a moderate frost bite during the construction of Sholto’s cairn. I have warmed and wrapped it; he shall recover fully with time, but use of it is now too painful to permit sustained writing.

Our mission now complete, we must hasten back to the _Investigator_ before true winter falls. The time is short. Our present object is to proceed a minimal distance of thirty-five miles each day, not pausing at sun fall, nor pausing to hunt except when absolutely necessary. Our small stock of provisions will see us through, though not, certainly, in comfort. We shall rest and recharge our energies when we reach the food cache deposited by Lestrade’s party – in perhaps twenty days’ time. Possibly we shall even overtake Evans and Newton, and carry on together.

* * * * *

_Kingmiatook, who escaped with one child, tells how it ended:_

The strange beings were very weak; their behaviour made little sense to us. The one who seemed to be the leader slept a great deal and would take little food. When Osha began to fuss and I took her to my breast, he opened his eyes and smiled and spoke some words in his strange tongue before he slept again, but I do not know what he said.

The other two strange beings slept less; they were restless and noisy. They took food: so much that they became ill on it and vomited up over the skin floor. Then they shouted and frightened the children, and Osha began to fuss again. One grabbed Qannik’s arm as she knelt to clean the mess. He jerked her forward to himself and put his hands on her in ways she did not like.

The leader man spoke sharply, then, and he released her, but we women saw and understood: we saw what kind of man this was.

It was not long after that the three beings removed themselves to the other iglu, taking a skin of water and a little meat with them. They were noisy amongst themselves; their black lips were cracked and terrible and their voices loud long into the night. Much later, the leader came again to our iglu. He had a number of items with him: a sack and a long branch-that-was-not-a-branch, and other things. He spoke some words, and then he was gone.

Eqilaglu said he thought the man had gone hunting; or maybe he had gone to fetch help for his companions. We did not know, because there are no other beings like this in the land, but it was an interesting thing to talk about it. In the end, we decided he must be hunting. We thought he was likely to return within a day or two.

The two beings left in the other iglu were quiet for a time, and we thought they were asleep, or maybe dead. When we slept, we were uneasy. We did not understand the strange feeling that had entered our camp.

We woke to find the two beings standing in our midst. One was digging through the frozen stores of meat; the other was piling all of Qannik’s good skins into a sack on his back. We watched and waited to see what would happen next.

The beings ransacked everything, and piled up all our best meat and skins, my bone needles from my mother, the soft breeches I am making for Tukkuttok. All the while they shouted and laughed and made ugly sounds. The children were frightened, but they knew to be silent – even Osha.

They took turns hauling the skins and meat back to the other iglu. One would go out with an armful of goods, and the other would stand at the entrance, watching us.

After a long time of this, all the skins and meat and cooking utensils were gone from our iglu. Even the floor skin was gone, and we were sitting on snow. One of the beings came to me an pulled off my amauti. The other being laughed and moved to Qannik. He took up her amauti and pulled off her boots, tossing them all outside. I thought he would go, then, to take them back to the other iglu, leaving us naked to freeze or starve.

But he made ugly sounds in his throat. He unfastened his own clothing and pushed Qannik down onto the ground. She pushed him off. The other being laughed.

Then things began to happen very slowly, and also very quickly.

The being on top of Qannik slapped her face. Her children, the little one and the big girl, began to cry.

Then Eqilaglu rose up. I believe the beings had forgotten about him until that moment. He rose up then, and said “No. You must stop this.” He put power into his words.

But the being by the door came at him with a long, terrible knife. He stabbed him in the belly, as if he were gutting him; as if he were prey. Qannik’s big girl cried out and ran to Eqilaglu, she tried to ease him down onto the ground. The terrible being kicked the child, and she fell away, senseless.

Then Qannik began to fight, and she had the spirit of the mother white bear: biting and clawing at the being on top of her until he rolled away, and she pulled her little ulu from its place by the wall and slashed at his face, and so we learned that the beings bleed just as Inuit do.

Both beings howled in rage, and attacked in earnest, then, each with their long knives. There was much blood spilled, and they did not spare the children in their fury.

The blood from her many wounds ran out onto the snow, and as she died Qannik uttered the word “Pamiuluq!” That is the old, old language. Pamiuluq is a spirit with a bad tail. “Pamiuluq” she said as she died, calling on the Spirit to destroy these beings.

I took Osha to my breast and bid her be silent. I ran. I – a naked, unarmed woman – could do nothing else. The terrible beings were too engrossed in their killings to pay me mind. Even now, I cannot say whether they were men or tupilaq. It does not matter.

As I left the iglu, I stumbled upon Qannik’s boots and amauti. I pulled them on as I ran, and slipped Osha into place on my back.

I ran until I could be sure the beings were not tracking me. I walked even longer after that, until Osha started to cry and I brought her forward to nurse. We walked for two days, and then we found Siluk and Tukkuttok and we were safe.

* * * * *

 _Overland Expedition Log, Resumed_  
_Recorded by S. Holmes_  
_15 October 1851_

Today we passed the cairn we erected at the place where our little tributary branched off from the main river south, on 28 September. Though the temperature is unpleasantly low, it is clear and calm, and our pace has been excellent. Neither of us wishes to stop, even when we march on, asleep on our feet. I do not recall if we stopped properly last night.

* * * * *

_Naturalist’s Log  
15 October 1851_

Both very tired now. Very tired. He is not broken, I do not think. But he is – very quiet. He will tell me nothing of what goes on in his mind, and at night he is different. He will have me, but he will not speak to me. He will not kiss me. I wish him to take what he needs from me; I only –

* * * * *

15 October 1851  
Barclay, Bevan, and Co., 54, Lombard-street

Dear Sirs,

Enclosed please find a banker’s draught in the amount of £1647 to discharge the debt of Mr. Michael Hooper, deceased. We now consider the matter resolved and request that you desist in all communication with Miss M. Hooper. Any further business may be referred directly to this office.

Mr. Christopher Foster, Solicitor  
317 White Oaks, London

* * * * *

15 October 1851  
Williams & Co., 20, Birchin-lane

Dear Sirs,

Enclosed please find a banker’s draught in the amount of £797 to discharge the debt of Mr. Michael Hooper, deceased. We now consider the matter resolved and request that you desist in all communication with Miss M. Hooper. Any further business may be referred directly to this office.

Mr. Christopher Foster, Solicitor  
317 White Oaks, London

* * * * *

15 October 1851  
Merchant Bkg. Co., 112, Cannon-st.

Dear Sirs,

Enclosed please find a banker’s draught in the amount of £132 to discharge the debt of Mr. Michael Hooper, deceased. We now consider the matter resolved and request that you desist in all communication with Miss M. Hooper. Any further business may be referred directly to this office.

Mr. Christopher Foster, Solicitor  
317 White Oaks, London

* * * * *

15 October 1851  
Martin and Co., 68, Lombard-st.

Dear Sirs,

Enclosed please find a banker’s draught in the amount of £3400 to discharge the debt of Mr. Michael Hooper, deceased. We now consider the matter resolved and request that you desist in all communication with Miss M. Hooper. Any further business may be referred directly to this office.

Mr. Christopher Foster, Solicitor  
317 White Oaks, London

* * * * *

15 October 1851  
Heywood & Co., 4, Lombard-street  
  
Dear Sirs,

Enclosed please find a banker’s draught in the amount of £87 to discharge the debt of Mr. Michael Hooper, deceased. We now consider the matter resolved and request that you desist in all communication with Miss M. Hooper. Any further business may be referred directly to this office.

Mr. Christopher Foster, Solicitor  
317 White Oaks, London

* * * * *

_Ship’s Log, Lestrade reporting  
16 October 1851_

Donovan and I bagged two deer today, both just a mile or so inland, and hauled them back to the ship on sledges. I had Caulder immediately cook up a large portion for every man aboard to consume at once; the hot meal did wonders for morale – at least in the short term – reminding us that we are civilized men, after all, and not savages, feasting on raw flesh. I then ordered an extra hour of lamplight, and we passed an almost pleasant evening.

No sight yet of the rescue party’s return. We continue our hourly signals. Publicly, I maintain a façade of optimism and good cheer, but privately I have grave misgivings.

* * * * *

 _Overland Expedition Log, Resumed_  
_Recorded by S Holmes_  
_16 October 1851_

Up this morning at 05:00, and made five or six hours progress – perhaps ten miles. It then began to blow so hard, with drift snow, that we were obliged to halt for fear of losing our way in the storm. We built a make-shift snow wall to shelter our tent, the internal temperature of which did not rise above minus 5° the whole of the day.

Degrees of a thermometer make little impression on those who have not experienced true cold; and, above all, the minus side of the scale is meaningless to those who have not lived in lands like this. In this extremity, we sleep but little, passing our time instead in a sort of near-catatonia induced by the relentless howl of the wind, and the persistence of the dark. We are nearly out of fuel for the spirit lamp, and dare not waste the little we have remaining for the luxury of light.

Despite the cold, it is good to rest. We need it.

* * * * *

_19 October 1851_

I deem it unnecessary to give a daily account of our trek, as our days are identical and my energies limited. We begin our march early, often in spite of a very annoying wind, sometimes accompanied by snow. We press on as quickly as we can, stopping little.  At 20:00, rarely earlier, we call halt and pitch for the night. If we are lucky enough to have meat in our packs (for I sometimes still manage a lemming or a hare) it is so hard frozen that we are obliged to cut it with a saw, and can only afford to thaw it by putting it into our warm tea: we cannot spare fuel for both purposes.

_20 October 1851_

We are no longer surprised to come upon bodies on this terrible, deathly trek. Death seems the most natural thing in the world, and life increasingly unreasonable an expectation. Mid-day today we stumbled upon the bodies of poor Jimmy Evans and Will Newton. They were sitting side by side in a snow bank, looking for all the world as if they had sat down to rest a spell, and simply never risen again. Evans’s boot was off, his entire leg from the knee-down black with gangrene. We lack the strength to bury them, and even to build a cairn, but we covered them with snow, and stood over them a spell. We shall name this tributary after them.

We were obliged to leave most of their belongings with them where they lay, for we cannot carry more than we currently do. I took Jimmy’s watch for his wife. Newton had nothing on his person worth preserving, but perhaps I can find something in his chest aboard ship to pass to his parents as a remembrance. We took a small amount of spirit fuel, and several ship’s biscuits and carried on.

_23 October 1851_

Imprisoned all yesterday by a storm; the path so difficult that we did not gain more than three hundred yards in two hours before we decided to halt.

_26 October 1851_

It is said that there is no jesting with a hungry stomach; there is assuredly none in our case. Heaven only knows what will be our fate, should the animals of this country, with four legs or two, have plundered Lestrade’s food cache. Our strength begins to fail. Yet we press on.

_28 October 1851_

We could not proceed yesterday, in consequence of another gale. We can be no more than two or three days’ walk from the cache. This, now, is our only thought. What torment to be so close. 

* * * * *

 _Ship’s Log, Lestrade recording  
__28 October 1851_  

The effects of cold and hunger begin to be felt, as evidenced in the number of admissions to the sick list — more numerous than at any former period, Stamford tells me — with diseases, resulting from these causes.

The men are become dispirited, from feeling their own inability to make the same exertions they have formerly done. Even the fittest among us are not as vigorous as we were. Many therefore do not take the same active part in the hunting as heretofore, and some have almost ceased to take any part in it. The result is that we have had less fresh meat to supplement our rations than we might have had, otherwise, and I may be forced to recalculate our ration allowance should this situation continue or, as I fear, worsen over the coming winter.

 * * * * *

_30 Oct 1851  
Surgeon’s Log_

There is a new and unexpected practice among the men which causes me much concern. The daily ration of meat being so small, and shrunk so much when boiled or cooked, that it merely affords a few mouthfuls to each, and fails to satisfy the keen craving of the appetite. The consequence is, that the practice of eating the meat raw – whether salt, preserved, fresh, or in a half-frozen state – has been almost universally adopted; and what under other circumstances would appear revolting, is now eaten and enjoyed with a degree of avidity and relish, which must be experienced to be fully understood.

I fear this may contribute much towards the deterioration of health, and to the further development of a scorbutic diathesis; but it goes on uninterruptedly whatever I say. The feeling which prompts then men to the adoption of the practice, appears to be but little under the control of the will; and the natural repugnance to raw meat, once overcome, it is not easy for hungry men to relinquish this more satisfactory mode of consuming it.

With what chagrin do I recall our earlier repugnance at this savage Esquimeaux practice.

Our quantity of oil is also very small, which only enables us to have lights at certain periods of the day. At other times, we have the option of either walking on deck, or sitting in the dark, which is the option most select. We look back upon last winter – a winter of convivial conversations and books and Dickens – with much fondness from this darker, hungrier time.

* * * * *

_Inuit saying, oft retold: Life’s greatest danger lies in the fact that man’s food consists entirely of souls._

* * * * *

 _Overland Expedition Log, Resumed_  
_Recorded by S Holmes_  
_1 November 1851_

Have reached the cache left by Lestrade and his advance party. Upon our approach, we found it to be occupied by a fox, which soon made its escape. Everything was as we left it: and as we were not less hungry than cold, having finished our last morsel at yesterday’s breakfast, we tucked into a good meal: our first in many weeks.

We rest here for the night, and then push hard for the ship. With our new stores of food and fuel, the last leg of our journey should be eminently bearable, despite the fact that we are now in almost perpetual darkness. If the weather holds clear, we shall be back in our cozy cabins in a matter of days. How strange to think with fondness on what I formerly considered my prison. How circumstances change us.  

* * * * *

_Ship’s Log, Lestrade reporting  
4 November 1851_

The sun took his entire departure yesterday, and the _Investigator_ is for the second time shrouded in a mantle of darkness, this time accompanied by a cheerlessness and gloom. Our chief occupation is the chase; now become more than ever a matter of duty for all to engage in who are able. As our needs are urgent, our best energies are devoted to it.

We all eagerly await Captain Watson’s return, but I most particularly. A ship cannot fare well in the absence of her commander, and I’d far rather toil beside my men than command them.  We all begin to fear that the ship is too dark to attract the party’s notice in the Winter season, and that they may miss us in the darkness. We have no lamp oil to spare, nor candles, but torches we can make, and we can sound our guns, as well. They must be back soon, or I fear they will not be back at all.

_23:45_

Thank God! They have returned.

* * * * *

 _5 November 1851_  
_Ship’s Log_  
_Captain John Watson, reporting_

My rescue party today returned to the ship; I have once more assumed command. Mr. Lestrade has performed admirably in my absence under difficult conditions, and shall be rewarded upon return to London.

I bring grievous news of both our party and of the party which we sought. The small group of men who survived the sinking of the _Erebus_ is all dead: they died of starvation and exposure on their march south. Some evidence of snow madness. We properly erected a cairn; map appended. Expedition logs appended.

Of our own rescue party, Holmes and I are the only survivors. James Evans died of gangrene after an injury to his ankle on the return march, and William Newton of exposure as he sought to care for his comrade. Their bodies lie where they died along the tributary as marked on map. Recommend tributary be named after them.

* * * * *

_Naturalist’s Log  
5 November 1851_

With what unutterable relief did we espy the _Investigator_ at last! I believe the weight of our exhaustion hit us forcibly then, for the last mile to the ship was perhaps the most difficult of the entire journey. Indeed, several times we had to pause, unable to take another step. Lestrade was wise to set torches burning around the ship: it was by their light that we were brought home.  By the time we were close enough to halloo to the men aboard ship, the lookouts had spotted us and come out onto the ice to assist us in our final steps.

It was a somber homecoming.

Dr. Stamford and Lestrade met us first, and seeing our sad faces and our lack of companions, belayed the crew’s enthusiastic welcome.

“To my great cabin,” John croaked, and they were the first words I had heard from his mouth in many days. “Lestrade, Stamford, if you would…?”

Lestrade sent the boy ahead with coal to light a fire, and called for tea and meat to be brought to the captain’s table.

Before long, we were all sitting together at table, snug and warm and full of good food. What a luxury did it seem: the candle! The brandy! It was bliss, and I sank into my good chair with great pleasure. Only when I looked at John did my pleasure wane, for his face remained as blank and dead as it had since our final discovery. 

He cleared his throat when our meal was finished, and took a long swallow of his drink. “Mr. Holmes,” he asked, “please brief the others on the findings of the party.”

I did so, providing detailed information about everything except that final scene in the _igloos_. I do not wish Sholto’s memory to be tarnished any more than John does – and after all, we cannot know for certain what occurred, and only we two have any evidence at all.

“We found the remainder of the _Erebus_ survivors dead in the igloo,” I concluded. “They succumbed to the elements.” I felt John’s eyes on me, and he nodded briefly.

Lestrade blew out his breath. “It is not the ending we had hoped for,” he said. “And yet, we can do nothing but raise our glasses to our brave and intrepid comrades, and to their noble commander. The loss is ours," he went on, standing and raising his glass. "The gain is his. He has won the greatest of all conquests—the conquest of himself. And he has died in the moment of victory. Not one of us here but may live to envy his glorious death."

And then, most terribly, I heard John Watson laugh. It was long and loud, but there was no mirth in it. Lestrade and Stamford looked at each other uncomfortably. “If this is victory, I confess I do not see it,” he replied.

Not five minutes later, he sent us out, bidding Lestrade send in a bottle of whiskey and not disturb him for twelve hours, at the least.

* * * * *

_Ship’s Log  
7 November1851_

Since I was not present for overwintering preparations, I have this day conducted a thorough check on the state of the ship. She appears to be in fine shape, physically, although supplies are low as noted by Lestrade in the log. Hunting continues to be of the utmost importance to our continued survival.

The state of morale on board is gloomy to a degree. The sick-bay is full of occupants, and Stamford reports that even those well enough to keep to their duties display symptoms of dysentery and other exhausting diseases, from the effects of cold and hunger acting on debilitated and scorbutic bodies.

We must have more fresh meat, and the fattier the better. We may consider sending out a sealing party, but seals are difficult prey at the best of times; I must consult upon the matter with Lestrade and Holmes.

* * * * *

 _Captain’s Log  
15 November 1851_  

Yesterday, the ship's company experiencing the cravings of hunger with more severity than before, came on the quarter-deck in a body, to ask for more food to their application. I refused to accede to the general body of men, but agreed to increase rations for the sick-list, which Stamford has long requested. We who are well must apply ourselves more avidly to the hunt.

I record this here, and not in the Ship’s Log, because I do not blame the men and do not wish them to face recriminations when I turn over the log to Mr. Holmes in London.

I wish conditions were better, but God knows I am not the man to provide them.

* * * * * 

 _Surgeon’s Log  
_ _29 November 1851_

Our expedition’s fourth death occurred this morning—that of ice-master John Wilcox, from dropsy supervening on an affliction of the heart of only nine days duration, a man of scorbutic habit; and the fifth, an hour later, was that of Henry May, boatswain’s mate, who had been long suffering from scurvy and debility, on which general dropsy supervened. This man was so debilitated when first brought before me that he could not stand without support. Dropsical diseases are now of very frequent occurrence, owing to the vitiated state of the blood, but most fortunately none is as far advanced as it was in the cases of Wilcox and May. We have thus several acts of mournful duty to perform, two deaths having taken place in the course of a single day.

These duties will not, however, suffice to excuse the men from their hunting expeditions, for nothing – not even temperatures of 65° below zero – will convince Captain Watson to call off the daily hunt. It is now a common circumstance to find a hunter return, so benumbed and helpless as to be barely able to reach the ship, and with utterance so impaired, as to render his speech difficult to be understood.

It is a trying period. The decks are in a most uncomfortable state, as none feels disposed to take more exercise than that prescribed in the usual daily routine, which is curtailed by an hour from what it was last winter. The air below is of an unhealthy character, and surcharged with moisture. The men are constantly complaining of the cold, which is not to be wondered at, considering the nature of the atmosphere surrounding them, in which they sit, sleep, and eat; the discomfort of which is only equaled by its insalubrity, as the sick list now but too fully proves.

Indeed, the transition of temperature from the lower to the upper deck, by merely walking up a few steps of a ladder, at times exceeds one hundred degrees. It, therefore, has become necessary to guard as much as possible against its evil effects, by wearing a fold of the netted woollen comforter over the mouth, in the form of a respirator. I have a Jeffrey's respirator in use, and tested its efficacy in the coldest temperatures. I found that it considerably modified the irritating effects of the inhalation of cold air, until the accumulation of ice obstructed it. I can, therefore, strongly recommend it, as it enables me to allow invalids in the coldest weather, such an amount of exercise as I deem it necessary for them to take.

* * * * *

_Captain’s Log  
1 December 1851_

I feel myself begin to despair, for this mission has been a failure from start to finish, and now more good men are dead because of me, and because of _him_.

Man is an animal, unredeemed and unredeemable. I see it in myself, and in the men around me; gobbling their raw meat and huddling together for warmth. I sicken with the knowledge of our true, bestial nature. For if good men can degenerate into – into what the _Erebus_ men became, at their end, what hope can there be for any of us?

It is only when I am alone with Sherlock, now, when we lie together, silent and trembling, that I ever feel anything at all. And then: I am flayed open, to my heart, to my very bones, and it is too much and I do not know how to tell him the thousandth part of what I feel, and so I say nothing at all.

I miss my Mary profoundly, her strange knack for hearing all the words I cannot say and speaking back to me as if I had given them voice. I wonder where she is now.

* * * * *

_Naturalist’s Log  
6 December 1851_

Physically, we have recovered from our overland expedition. With better, more regular nutrition – even at the small rations now afforded us aboard ship – and with rest, we have regained much of the physical strength we lost. I believe I slept for more than two days upon our return.

John will not speak to me, even now. Or rather – he will, unwillingly, speak to me of things inconsequential, but will not say a word about his inner thoughts: that which I most value. I imagine he feels some guilt for the deaths we have suffered, for he is a most attentive and responsible commander. I imagine he grieves for Sholto. Beyond that – well. I never can predict his mind.

There is at least the chase to keep him occupied, for I fear mental and physical stagnation would be disastrous for him just now. Our techniques must be adjusted, that much is clear to me. We cannot waste our time on the larger mammals: it is unlikely in the extreme that we will bring down a bear in this season, for example; or even, alternately, a seal.

We must swallow our pride and turn to the small mammals, and I must resume my study of their digestion and diet. Even the non-hibernating species must certainly undergo a metabolic shift to survive the harsh conditions, the study and documentation of which shall be my chief occupation in the coming months. 

I made several observations during the overland expedition which may now prove useful to us in obtaining our daily meat.

  1. That Foxes, Lemmings, and several species of birds, all burrow in the snow for the sake of warmth.
  2. That the Hares frequent some localities in considerable numbers, conveying the idea of their being at certain seasons gregarious, but that one small disturbance by Man is enough to send them fleeing for hours or days from these very localities.
  3. That Lemmings and Mice are met with in vast numbers in virtually all regions thus far explored in the north.
  4. That Lemmings and Mice subsist chiefly on the vegetable products of the soil — dwarf willow and the grasses, &c. — but they have likewise a carnivorous propensity, for I have frequently known them to eat each other.
  5. Most importantly to our current purposes, that the flesh is delicate and tender, and both pleasanter to eat and easier to procure than seal meat.  In fact, it is rather my opinion that mice and possibly lemmings will prove to be our salvation this winter.



I recall I once mocked the importance of _Mus musculus_. I shall certainly never do so again.

* * * * *

_Naturalist’s Log  
21 December 1851_

Fitting, to be writing this entry on the darkest day of the year – what might have been the darkest day of my life.

I did not see John all day. I watched for him, as I always do, but he did not emerge from his cabin. I saw Lestrade look for him as well, and I saw several men glance quizzically between him and Stamford, clearly worried about their captain’s wellbeing. It became apparent by 16:00 that we would not be making an appearance amongst the crew this day – an anomaly, but only just. He has, in truth, been more absent than present since our return, in both factual and figurative senses, and even I can see that the men feel it keenly.  

I have attempted to distract them. They need their captain to truly rally their spirits, but in his absence – quite contrary to my own inclinations and habits – I do what I can to allay their worry and their boredom. I do it for _his_ sake.

In the near-constant darkness, we rely upon the sharing of remembered stories and long-familiar tales, which we repeat to each other again and again. I find myself surprised by the number of novels, plays, and other trivial entertainments that have found their way into long-neglected corners of my mind palace. I have become quite popular, it shocks me to relate, for the number and quality of stories I am able to recall, and the detail with which I impart them.

I spent the afternoon in such pursuits, and for a time, the men were, I flatter myself, transported from their dire present conditions.

After several hours, Joe Pine took over with an insipid retelling of _Einen Jux will er sich machen_ , a play he clearly barely understood on his single, confused viewing, but an excellent opportunity for me to slip away, as the men were enthralled.

I went silently then to John’s cabin, and rapped softly on the door.

“John?” I called.

There was no sound from within, but so uneasy was I about him that I easily forced the simple lock and entered, closing the door silently behind me.

I have never been so mortally shocked in my life.

He was sitting on the edge of his bunk, staring at a revolver in his hand. For his part, he seemed unsurprised at my sudden appearance. I wanted to rush to him and wrench the terrible instrument from his hands, but I forced myself to be still.

“Tell me, Sherlock,” he said idly, “how can I live with what has happened? With the terrible things I have seen men do? Men I would have called _good_ and noble and true? Men who represent all that I believe in – that I have lived my life for?”

I closed my eyes. How could I – _I_ of all men – give this man a reason to live? I had no idea what to say to him. But somehow, then, I was speaking. “Ah, John,” I said, gently drawing closer. “Do you wish for comfort, or for truth?”

He choked out a laugh, but the sound was like a sob in his mouth. “Can I not have both?”

I thought for a moment; I decided I must speak only of what I know, for I would not patronize John Watson, of all men.

“Listen,” I said. “I am a naturalist and an atheist. I do not claim to be a good man, but rather, an empirical man, a scientist. I derive the things I know to be true from the careful and systematic observation of the world around me. And Sholto’s analysis was incomplete, coloured by the singular circumstances of his most unusual life. We men are physical, material creatures: a complex, highly organized collection of muscles, tissues, organs, bone, acted upon by circumstance. My most basic belief is this: man does not stand somehow apart from nature – we _are_ nature.”

He sniffed and nodded shortly. “Nature, red in tooth and claw.”

I nodded. “Red in tooth and claw, certainly. We are savage, we beasts. We are brutal. But we are not _only_ that that.” I paused for a moment, thinking of how to make him understand. At last, a remembrance struck me: a fragment of something I had read once that had surprised me, and stayed with me.

I dared come closer, and knelt slowly down before him. Being infinitely careful not to startle him, I took his right hand, his empty hand between my own, and recited what I could remember:

               _O'er all that moves,_  
_O'er all that leaps, and runs, and shouts, and sings,_  
_Or beats the gladsome air, o'er all that glides_  
_Beneath the wave, yea, in the wave itself_  
_In all things_  
_I saw one life, and felt that it was joy._

He looked at me, and I could not read his expression at all. I kissed him then, frantically: his forehead, his eyes, his cheeks, his mouth. I was desperate for him to understand – to understand that which I could not quite put into words. Whether he did, or not, I cannot say – but he did at least kiss me in return as he has not done since our terrible discovery in the _igloos_.

“I have tried,” he said at last, drawing away. “I have tried to be the man I thought I should be. A good son. A fair husband. A patriotic Briton. A loyal seaman. An honest friend. I have tried to be a good man; to be strong. I have failed in almost every respect, Sherlock. My life – it is a series of failures to conform to the things I believe in.”

“Then you must change your beliefs to fit your circumstances. I will not hear you call yourself a failure. Not ever again, within my hearing,” I said hotly.

He shook his head at me, wonderingly. “How can you say that?”

“Because I am an empirical man, and I can only speak from what I observe. Your presence in my life – it has saved me, John. _You_ have saved me.”

He smiled at me then, and looked at me as though he were truly _seeing_ me at last, and took my hand and kissed it, but softly he said, as if to himself, “How strange to be so unrecognizable to oneself. How terrible it is, to live an unfamiliar story.”

I shivered, suddenly chilled. “How freeing,” I said, “how beautiful that we might write our own.”

He sighed. “It is not so easy as that, Sherlock.”

“Nor is it so difficult as you would have it.”

He did not answer, but handed me the revolver. I have locked it in my strong box and will not return it.

The darkest day of our darkest year has passed. Let us now put it truly behind us.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lestrade's aborted toast to Sholto comes from a play by Wilkie Collins and Charles Dickens about the Franklin Expedition, The Frozen Deep. It's... pretty melodramatic. :P 
> 
> Thanks SO MUCH for your patience with this chapter. I know it was a long wait, and I'm really sorry. The wait for the next one (and the little epilogue to follow) won't be as long -- in fact, it's half written already! 
> 
> Thanks to unreconstructedfangirl: we've had some really interesting tumblr conversations that have shaped a lot of my thinking here. Love and gratitude to my wonderful beta redscudery, and also to YOU! My amazing readers! I am so fortunate. XOXOXOXOXOX


	10. December 1851 – August 1852

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another winter, another spring.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See translations in the endnotes.

_Her Majesty The Queen_  
_Buckingham Palace  
London SW1A 1AA _

22 December, 1851

Her Majesty Victoria, by the Grace of God, of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland Queen, Defender of the Faith, Empress of India.

May it please Your Majesty,

Herein our 1851 report on the Arctic expedition of your _Investigator_ , financed through ostensibly private means and departing our shores in the year of our lord 1850 on a mission to trace and recover the _HMS Erebus_ , Captain Sholto, and any surviving crewmen and to confirm their discovery of the Northwest Passage.

We have had no word of the expedition through any of the usual channels since the last shipment of letters arrived with the whalers more than a year ago. Ships active in the northeastern waters of that continent have reported no sightings, even of debris as would be reasonably expected to accompany a wreck. Our traders with connections in Arctic regions report no unusual activity amongst the native Esquimeaux with whom they occasionally comingle.

Madam, I humbly suggest that we must face the possibility that they will not return. Even if the ship is still viable, the crew must already have exhausted their rations, and they are not equipped for extended Arctic service. The coming summer will be our last season of hope: they must withdraw from the Passage during this thaw, and return to us in the autumn. If they do not return by October, I hold out little hope for their survival.

I have the honour to remain Your Majesty's humble and obedient servant.

M Holmes  
Diogenes Club  
London

* * * * *

_Hand delivered to the Diogenes Club, London, December 23, 1851_

Mr. Holmes,

We are not interested in the possibilities of defeat. They do not exist. The Northwest Passage belongs to us; our claim must be absolute.

VR

* * * * *

_Ship’s Log  
24 December 1851_

The results of our hunting expeditions near the ship yield ever fewer kills, the plentiful game of the fall season giving way to winter barrenness. On the 22nd, a small party departed the ship on a hunting expedition of several days’ duration: I leading, and bringing with me Lestrade, Wilcox, Kennedy, and Donovan, the fittest of the crew. It is difficult to hunt in this darkness, but the moon is bright enough that we do not fear losing our way, at least. Two men pulled sledges, our hope being to load them with meat before our return in several days.

Our journey was a severe and tiring one. On the morning of our departure, it was 35 below zero, and alternated several degrees above and below that during the journey. Our route lay over the ice, some of which was heavy and packed, but some of it was of the previous year’s formation, and very rough on the sledges.

The cold was intense: much worse than on our previous overland expedition. Our garments were always frozen after a march, stockings and boots adhering so firmly to each other, from the condensation of vapor, that we were often obliged to cut them off our feet, which might be said to be encased in ice. We kept in constant motion to prevent being frost-bitten. The mitts were in the same condition, together with other portions of our dress; the only means for thawing which, was by taking them into our blanket bags when we went to rest, and imparting to them the warmth of our own bodies. The consequence was, that the product of the thaw, water, froze on our bags, which ultimately became hard and stiff from the accumulation of ice. Everything was either half-thawed, frozen, or covered with hoar-frost, not excepting eyelids, beard, and face, with frost-bites constantly occurring, from the exposure of the hands in the manipulation necessary for putting on one's garments, or taking them off. We were frequently frost-bitten when asleep, or when in the act of dispatching our hasty meal, while sitting up in the tent, enveloped in our blankets.

Such are a few of the incidents of Arctic travelling, in the performance of which no service more thoroughly tests man's powers of endurance, both morally and physically. We stopped as little as possible – a few hours each night – but night being no different than day in quality of light or in temperature, it made little difference to our bone-deep exhaustion.

Our hunting party saw few successes: not enough, indeed, to justify the extra expenditure of rations which were required to sustain us on the journey. Worse, we suffered several serious injuries. Yesterday, while in pursuit of reindeer at a temperature of 36 degrees below zero, Lestrade’s gun burst in his hands when in the act of firing, shattering the stock. His hands and forearms were grievously injured, and he was severely frost-bitten in the aftermath of the injury. A similar circumstance occurred later the same day to Kennedy. With two injured men and a seeming inability to bring down large prey, I ordered the expedition back to the ship. The men were too weak and too cold to do much more.

* * * * *

_Ship’s Surgeon’s Log  
24 December 1851_

The ill-advised hunting party has returned. Our men held out well: all suffer from exhaustion and frost bite, and Lestrade and Kennedy have superficial wounds to their hands and arms that will certainly prevent them from holding a rifle again for the foreseeable future, but all should recover reasonably well, given the constraints of our current circumstances.

Sickbay is full, and the list of complaints grows daily. Most will recover with proper diet and conditions, and a steady supply of anti-scorbutics. Without these things…

Milner, I fear, will not recover regardless. He suffers greatly – worse than the others – and his intellect has now been affected. He is in a state of complete imbecility, and a source of much trouble and anxiety; he was, on one occasion, found climbing to the upper decks with nothing but a thin blanket wrapped around his shoulders. Fortunately he was noticed and returned to me, but he must be watched constantly.

I fear to trouble the Captain with my reports, and yet the truth cannot be kept from him. Our situation grows more dire with every passing day.

* * * * *

_Naturalist’s Log  
24 December 1851_

I write now with a graphite pencil, all the ink on board having frozen. We have not sufficient coal to keep the temperature steadily above freezing anywhere except the mess and the sickbay.

John and his idiotic hunting party have returned more dead than alive. The man nearly froze himself to death in order to provide a Christmas meal for his crew – and to what end? Bah. His instinct for self-destruction is staggering.

And yet what I can say to him? He is my captain, always, and I have no cogent argument to make. I, reduced to wordless sensation: helpless terror and furious want.

A year ago --. A year ago he kissed me for the first time. How changed am I! I cannot – I _will_ not – live without

* * * * *

Ship’s Log  
25 December 1851

As difficult as our last Christmas seemed to us at the time, yet now we look back upon it with fondness and regret, for we were snug enough in our ship, and well fed. Now: all is silent and dark. Caulder has no reserves with which to mark the holiday, and I have no Christmas delicacy to offer these good men, and nothing with which to fill their bellies. Only a triple ration of rum to warm them and the captain’s ration of coal to add to the meager allowance that heats the mess.  

The men are weakening. I have cancelled the daily hunt. They shall spend the day at rest.

* * * * *

_At the winter settlement far to the east of Anjikuni, Kingmiatook whispered to her daughter Osha:_

In the darkest hours of the darkest days, when brother moon and sister sun are below the horizon, we must watch the dark sky, just there. At the rising of the bright star Akkuktujut, we will know that daylight is about to return and it is time for celebration.

On the first day the sun reappears, we all begin a new life. We must prepare for that now, do you see? I will show you how; we will do it together.

* * * * *

_Captain’s Log  
11 January 1852_

It is so dark, and so very cold. There is no daytime anymore, nor nighttime. Meals take but a moment. Nothing with which to mark the days. Hunting is difficult, with so many ill and our two best men injured. Donovan makes a mighty effort to fill Lestrade’s shoes, but game is so scarce that what he manages to bring in provides barely a morsel for each man. Increasingly, we pass the time abed, hoarding what strength and warmth and comfort still remains. I am loath to give orders to the contrary, and Stamford concurs. With less effort expended, we can manage on less food.

* * * * *

Miss M. Hooper  
In care of Mrs. M. Hudson  
78 St. Cross Road  
Winchester

14 January 1852

Dear Miss Hooper,

Forgive my impertinence of writing this letter, but I have long had what I would characterize as a paternal interest in your wellbeing, and since your father’s death I have wished to assist you in making your way in the world, in whatever capacity I can.

Permit me to say that I hold you in very high esteem. You have not, I know, had an easy life. Your father was always a hard man, and his final illness made him harder still. Your perseverance in your studies, despite these unfavourable circumstances, made a great impression on me. Indeed, I wish more young ladies would take your example.

All this to say, I have been thinking and thinking on how best to assist you, and I believe I have hit upon an idea.

You have perhaps heard of Dr. Elizabeth Garrett Anderson? She is, of course, the famed – the only – lady doctor now practicing in England. I have the honour of a slight professional acquaintance with her, and am thoroughly impressed with her professional acumen. I do not share the prejudice of many medical men in believing the field must be closed to the gentler sex; indeed, it is my opinion that ladies are well suited by temperament and nature to care for the ill.

In any case, Dr. Anderson has recently opened a surgery at 20 Upper Berkeley Street. She seeks an office girl: a well-educated, well-read, good-tempered, and hard-working lady to apprentice with her. When she told me this, I immediately thought of you, Miss Hooper. The pay she offers is not exorbitant, but it is very reasonable, and there is considerable likelihood of advancement. She has a room for let over her consulting rooms, and it would be available for your immediate use. If you wish it, I will happily provide a letter of introduction, and you can discuss the matter directly with her.

I trust this letter finds you much improved.

Your sincere well-wisher,

Dr. Joseph Bell

* * * * *

_Naturalist’s Log  
15 January 1852 _

Some of my measurements have fallen away due to the harshness of the conditions. I do not know the thickness of the ice. Thus far in January, the temperature has fallen lower than has ever been experienced by any former Expedition — to 55° below zero, and in the interval of the usual period for taking the observations it fell to —63°, as the force of the wind was likewise greater. The mean temperature of the month is so far 43.87 below zero, lower than we had known it during any former winter, and, I believe, surpassing in degree anything recorded in former Polar voyages. I cannot properly remember the details of the previous record; my mind begins to muddle. The 6th January was the coldest day that has ever been known in these latitudes — the mean temperature for twenty-four hours was 61°.6 below zero — from which some idea may perhaps be formed of the intensity of the cold, during this the coldest of the cold winter months.

The men cram into the mess for as long as they can countenance the close quarters; it is the only place we feel any semblance of warmth. It is difficult to bear the proximity of so many men, but when John raps on my cabin door, I permit him to convince me to accompany him thither for our daily hour of candlelight. He sits close to me, then, closer than propriety would allow – but at these temperatures, so does everyone else. The dim light seems very dazzling, after the dark. I can see his face, and he mine, and that is worth a very great deal. I close here. I have better things to look on in the brief light. I long for him. He is here, beside me, and I long for him. A veil parts, sometimes, and – .

* * * * *

_Captain’s Log  
19 January 1852_

The men are hungry, cold, sick, and wretched. We have light in the mess, now, for one hour each day, which is how I write this Log. The exception is sick bay, where Stamford has free rein to use candles as required. My personal ration of candles and coal has gone to sickbay. We cannot exercise above deck in this cold; we have no energy to spare even for hunting. We lie abed and preserve what strength we have. We wait for the sun.

* * * * *

_Surgeon’s Log  
21 January 1852_

It is all a waiting game now. The spring will come, or we will die – as to which will happen first, it is anyone’s guess. George Milner has finally succumbed to scurvy. He hung on much longer than I expected, but now his suffering is at an end. The captain has designated a corner of the orlop deck the deadroom; it is frigid in those depths, and we cannot bury him either at land or at sea until the thaw.

I keep the illest men in sick bay, where they will at least be warm: Kerr is here, and Anderson. Too, James William, Joe Pine, and James Lyons, all with rapidly advancing scurvy. Quarters are very tight. Many others are failing, as well, and all aboard ship are now on the sick list in some capacity. I’d wager Holmes’s condition is worse than he lets on, but I will not pry, for I have no means to cure or even aid him. Donovan is surely the strongest of all of us. He continues to hunt, though not every day, and without much success. Young Archie worries me; a boy of his years should not be subject to such limited rations; I slip him my own when I can.

* * * * *

_[Paper crumpled in wastebasket.]_

February 1852  
To Doctor Bell  
Harley Street

~~Dear Sir,~~

~~Thank you for your~~

My Dear Sir, ~~~~

~~I cannot tell you with what a thankful heart I recei~~

* * * * *

_Surgeon’s Log  
2 February 1852_

Henry Sugden was found dead in his bunk this morning. I had not been checking on him, as he was not apparently any sicker than the rest; he was not even in sickbay, but in the main mess with the others. What he died of – I cannot say with certainty. He died of this place. We are all dying of it. I have lost three teeth since yesterday.

We’ve moved Sugden to the dead room below decks. I will endeavor to check the condition of each man aboard, morning and night, though there is little I can do for them.

* * * * *

_Captain’s Log  
8 February 1852_

If only there were something I could _do_! And yet I am tired – so tired. So cold. My thinking grows muddled sometimes; as if I am in a dark fog. And there is nothing at all to do but to lie in the dark and think and pray for sleep. Even at mess, the men speak little. Sherlock and I speak little. Sherlock – he! The most voluble of men. I know that he is not well.

Last winter was a time of shared feeling and mutual fellowship amongst the men. This winter, less is shared and more is hoarded. I do not know if I wish for life or death. I wish life for my men. I must wish life for them.

I wrestle with Sholto in the dark, for hours, his hands ‘round my throat, until sleep takes me, or Caulder rings the bell for rations. He has taken to locking the store room and wearing the key around his neck.

* * * * *

_Naturalist’s Log  
13? 18? February? _

I do not

 

 

It is dark. I write by feel. It is only instinct to record, I believe, but he is here with me now,

 

and I will not leave my bunk while he is in it. Not for some paltry rations, not for light. We have light. We have light here, between us, and warmth. I have him, there is nothing else I need.

He came to me – when? An hour ago? A day? I did not know if I dreamed.

 “Help me,” he whispered. “You took away my revolver – you consigned me to this. Help me, now.” I could not tell if he was angry, but as he spoke, he raised the blanket on the bed and crawled in beside me, throwing his own over top of us as well. He grasped my arms and shook me. He was real. He hurt my arm. His words were anguished, but he was strong in his rage.  “Help me to feel it, to bear it. I don’t know how to --”

 

We were wrestling. Or were we loving? Was he crying? I could not –. Was I?

 “Always, John. Always.” I touched his face because I could not see him in the dark, and he touched mine. In the touching, I saw. I saw him. We slept, and woke, and slept again, until the two merged together in some eternal and unchanging stasis. Sometimes he

 

spoke, perhaps a word or a sentence, sometimes struggling to speak the needful thing, and sometimes not speaking it. ό, τι δεν μπορούμε να πούμε θα είναι έκλαψε, it is true, it is true, I hear, I think I understand.

All was touching. All. The very air was our touching. And we were one. I felt the wound in his heart – how can I express this? I felt it as if it pierced my own, as if I could no longer tell, in the dark, which wound was his and which was mine; my body, my very mind, grew permeable, and when he pressed himself to me, the pain was so great that I was breathless, for a time, and dizzy with it, but his breath beside me drew me back to myself, and he breathed for me then, and I for him, and the wound – the pain was again bearable – and his breathing eased, and I touched

his face and felt fingers on my own, and that gossamer barrier between us, that barrier that separates the essence of all living things, it was gone, gone, gone.

 

 

Is there a word for this? A word to make it real? Siamo il ghiaccio, dissolving and resolidifying, un cicolo terrible, sublime. He my solvent and I his. Solvation, that is the word. No: salvazione. Il liquido diviene cristallo, volume becomes mass, mass becomes an anchor. Mi ancoro in lui e lui in me.

 

How can I be his anchor when my body is floating away?

 

We are so tired. We sleep too much. We are warm together.

 

His face. His _face_. I see it with my fingers. I feel it on my tongue.

 

 

 

John, I was wrong about writing our own story. We are not writing at all, but rather learning to read it in the darkness.

 

Wenn es so sein soll dass wir hier sterben, so werden wir zumindest dies gehabt haben.

I will have loved.

 

I must master myself. I feel drugged. It is so hard to believe oneself real in this darkness. I must not --.

 

 

We are dying.

We are dying,                        ό, τι δεν μπορούμε να πούμε θα είναι έκλαψε

I need to _think_.

 * * * * *

_Captain’s Log  
February_

I take up my pen – my pencil – once more, and it feels strange between my fingers. I am clumsy as a child. How long were we holed up in Sherlock’s cabin? Two days? Three? More? God. I recall Caulder brought us rations once – or was it twice? How long?

It was but a moment, a moment separate from the world, for us two alone. What is that poem? I cannot think at all … _This bed thy center is, these walls, thy sphere._ It was all the world, all the universe and all of space and time and all that man is and can be.

This bed thy center is, I thought, and mine as well. I never wished to leave. It was so – it was perfect. We were warm. I hurt when I came to him; hurt so that I thought I would die of it. And he – he drew the poison from me. Simply by loving me. He loves me. I think the pain began to abate when I saw that – ha! When I _saw_ that, finally, blind in the dark. He loves me. He loves me! He whispered this to me, again and again until I believed with my – with the stuff of my body. Mind be damned – I believe him with my flesh. We merged together, in that bed. We were one, and all was beautiful, and nothing hurt.

It was Sherlock who woke us from this beautiful fog. It was he – it is ever he – who saves us. Perhaps we were dying. He believes we were. I did not know that I slept, but I woke to him shaking me, shaking me hard, forcing me to rise, wrapping my blanket around my shoulders and leading me to the mess.

How we trembled, weak and cold. We newborns.

In the mess, I ordered Caulder, lying by the stove, to light the candle. It quite blinded me, and I shrank away from the light. As my vision cleared, I saw the sorry state of us. The men lie in rows, motionless and groggy. Caulder rose and went slowly to the store room, returning with a hard biscuit and a little cocoa for each. Most had to moisten their biscuit to be able to bite it. They are losing teeth now. There was silence, except for someone’s racking cough – Robby Tiffeny, I think.

Sherlock, though! He is like a man possessed. He paces furiously, skipping nimbly over outstretched legs and muttering to himself as he goes. It makes me dizzy to look at him, and so I have taken out my little log book and my pencil, and here I sit.

He cannot think his way out of this.

* * * * *

_Naturalist’s Log_

I have it. I _have_ it!

It is the foxes – we must be foxes, we must

I must go; there is no time to lose. If only I can…

* * * * *

_Ship’s Log_  
27 February 1852  
  
Once again is our mission indebted to naturalist Holmes’s ingenuity. We have passed a terrible month – these past two weeks, most especially. We are cold and we sicken and starve. He has invented a scheme for supplementing the nutritional intake of the crew. It has made a sudden and marked improvement in the condition of the men, as has the painfully gradual reappearance of light in the sky. The effect on morale of just a few minutes of light on the horizon cannot be overstated. Despite the excessive cold, I order the men who are well enough up to the main deck to see it every day; to bask and take note of its ever-lengthening promise.

Holmes’s discovery is this: that in observing and then emulating the Arctic fox, we may discover large invisible colonies of mice and lemmings living under the snow cover, and trap these in sufficient numbers to feed ourselves. His early experiments have proven most successful, and resulted in a nutrient-rich slurry that was entirely disgusting, but nevertheless was devoured by the crew. With Caulder’s assistance he has found a more palatable formulation.

Holmes assures me that a bowlful of this stew, issued twice per day, will keep men alive through a winter. It is far more sustaining – and results in much better health – than the severely reduced rations upon which we had been subsisting.

He has drafted Donovan, Thompson, and Sainsbury, the healthiest remaining men, into service, constructing and setting ingenious traps which he takes out onto the ice, morning and evening, to deposit under the snow cover in specific placement formations understood only by him. He claims to have learned the technique from observing the foxes during our protracted overland expedition. However he has done it, the man has all but assured our survival through this terrible winter. I can see the men grow stronger again before my eyes.

* * * * *

_Book of Receipts for Ship Cooking_  
Her Majesty Queen Victoria’s Royal Navy  
Ex Libris John Caulder, 1832  
Hand written in careful script inside the back cover:

Mouse Stew (February 1852)

Skin and eviscerate a large number of mice, rats, and lemmings – as many as you are able to obtain.

Separate the bones from the meat of the animals, and place the bones, along with whatever savoury herbs you have to hand, into a cauldron of good, fresh water with a little salt. Boil to draw the goodness from the bones and obtain a savoury stock.

Once the bones are boiled clean and stripped of all marrow, strain them out and then add the meat to the stock along with the daily vegetable ration and a small rasher of salt pork for flavor. An onion would be most beneficial but is presently out of our reach. Cook to reduce the stew to a favourable thickness.

If you can spare a spoonful or two of oats per man, this will fortify the stew most agreeably.

The men should prefer the savoury stew baked in a pie if such luxury is within your means.

The caldron should never be allowed to run dry, but should be refreshed with daily additions of meat &ct. In this way does its flavor improve.

The flavor of the mice is no different from rabbit, while lemmings are reminiscent of partridges.

* * * * *

_Ship’s Surgeon’s Log  
28 February 1852_

Perhaps I should not say so, for fear of angering the capricious gods, but I believe the worst of the danger has now passed. Holmes’s innovative foodstuff appears to be as nutritious as it is disgusting – which is to say, very – and the pervasive feeling of imminent doom under which we have passed much of this winter seems to be lightening with the sky itself. I can remove no men from the sick list, for the scurvy is still advancing and that will not change until we can harvest fresh plants in the true spring, but hunger subsides, and that makes a great difference to what human bodies can withstand.

* * * * *

_Many seasons later, when Osha was old enough to understand, Kingmiatook told her the story._

That winter, the winter after the terrible coming of the qallunaat, after all the deaths, it was very cold, very hard. We had not seen one like it in many years, and we all suffered from it. Even after we rejoined father’s camp, it was not easy.

We prepared for many days, many nights, in the cold and dark. When we first saw the small light of the sun in the sky – how great was our relief. The children ran singing to blow out the flames of every qulliq, to remove the old wicks and relight the lamps with a new one. Then the men made their nunajisartung, dancing and singing, following the course of the sun. We women had our gifts prepared: meat, ivory, pieces of good sealskin. No one was forgotten.

Then we had the contest of the seasons; the children of winter, the axigirn, took up one side of a rope of sealskin, and the children of the summer, the aggirn, took up the other. They pulled and pulled against each other, and we who watched held our breath – for it the axigirn prevail, summer has won the game and the coming year will be an easy one. It was not clear, for long minutes, who would win – but the summer took it at last, and loud were our cheers then.

At last, tall and lumbering, with a sealskin mask and long spears, the qailertetang came over the ice. Children screamed – no, not you, my brave girl – and women fell back before him. Men began to run, pursued by the qailertetang, to the huts of their women, where they were for the following day nulianititijung. Having performed this duty, the qailertetang invoked the good north wind, which brings fair weather, and danced to warn off the unfavourable south wind.

As soon as the incantation was over, all the men remaining in the circle attacked the qailertetang with great noise, acting as if they had weapons in their hands and would kill the spirit. One seemed to probe him with a spear, another to stab him with a knife, one to cut off his arms and legs, another to beat him unmercifully on the head. The robes he wore were ripped open and soon lay strewn beside his body on the snow. Then we each took up our drinking cups and passed them to the qailertetang, awakening him to new life.

We feasted, then, on igunaq, and prayed together that the next year would be better for us.  

It has been better, Osha, my love; the rituals worked magic and the portents spoke truth.

* * * * *

_16 March 1852  
Naturalist’s Log_

I am kept very occupied with the trapping and processing of small Arctic mammals, and have not had the leisure to keep up with this log. Most of my measurements have fallen away, although I can report at least that the cold continued very severe in the month of February, the mean of which being 38°.5 below zero. March, thus far, is not appreciably warmer. The winter has been throughout unparalleled in its rigour and severity. At a future date, I shall record the details of my traps: physical dimensions; efficacy with various species; &ct &ct. But at present, I am focused entirely upon the unexpected task of feeding a ship-full of men.

John sleeps with me now. Every night. I would not – we cannot be separate. We have lost all fear of disapprobation. It is warm. It is right. There is no room left in us for fear.

* * * * *

25 March 1852

The Sheffield Female Political Association  
Miss Janine Hawkins, Secretary  
37 Upper Hannover Street

Darling,

You may soon hear some news of an ostensibly alarming nature from our French friends. Please do not fret. There is a plan – a very definite plan – and all trots along quite satisfactorily. Do not write; I cannot guarantee the security of our correspondence. I shall contact you soon after the thing is done.

Yours,

MW

* * * * *

_Ship’s Log  
28 March 1852_

Temperatures warm with almost agonizing slowness, but aboard ship our conditions have improved to such an extent that I have been able to order day expeditions of 2 to 4 men charged with gathering any firewood or brush they might find on the shore and hauling it back, as well as hunting any game they come across. To enable us to withstand the fatigue of the short expeditions, we are obliged to eat the greater portion of our ration of stew. In the past several weeks, our united efforts have enabled us to procure a brace of hare and a single reindeer, which yielded 94 lbs. of meat for general use. It does perhaps speak to our desperation for good meat that the blood of the deer that was killed was eagerly drunk by the hunter as it flowed fresh and warm from the wound, for the vivifying and sustaining influence it exercised; but as it froze on the face as it flowed, he presented a frightful spectacle on coming on board.

* * * * *

_Captain’s Log  
17 April 1852_

I must prepare the men to make a final push; one last effort to withdraw and return home. My concern now is to feed them as much as possible, to shore up their health by whatever means I possibly can, and to prepare the ship for sailing. We must be in excellent shape when the melt finally comes. We all know that this is our final chance. We will not survive another winter.

Sherlock has worked himself to the bone these last six weeks. He is – One might almost say that he is like a different man; one whose magnificent heart and tireless efforts in aid of others match – nay, eclipse – his startling intellect. One _might_ almost say such a thing, but I know now that such a statement would be false. He has always been that man, and it is no one’s fault but our own for not seeing it sooner.

I fear for his health. He is out in the snow with his traps at all hours of the day and night. This though the game animals have begun to return from lands to the south and we find ever more success at the chase. He does not eat even a half of his own rations, and at night I can easily feel his bones through his skin.

I shall ask Mike Stamford to have a word with him. I know Sherlock respects him as a man of science.

* * * * *

_Ship’s Log  
2 May 1852_

Our mission for the month of May is to ballast and water the ship preparatory to our expected liberation. The men who have not been completely prostrated by the scurvy are strong enough for it, I believe, after several months of Holmes’s excellently efficacious and nourishing stew. Lestrade has almost completely recovered from his hunting misadventure, and is stuck in with the rest of them. He has the strength of a bear, but they are all exceptionally motivated to work quickly and to work well.

_* * * * *_

_La Presse, Paris._  
Le 9 mai, 1852  
P. 4

Readers may remember that hysterical women’s publication _La Femme Libre_ , which did such damage to the public good and refused to cease publication even when its proprietors were unable to pay mounting fines or to raise the necessary security bond of 5,000 francs. That this failure came despite the newspaper’s claim to represent the interests of all women in France only demonstrates the hollowness of that very claim, and the falseness of that newspaper’s political disposition. So persistent were these delusional women, however, that it was only with the imprisonment of editrixes Jeanne Deroin (Jeanne “Victoire,” as she styled herself) and Pauline Roland that the laughable “newspaper” finally died its natural death.  

And so might the story have ended, until the extraordinary events of last night, when Deroin and Roland were found missing from their cells in the Prison Saint-Lazare. It is a mystery how they have enacted their escape, since the prison reported no incidents of alarm until the morning, and the doors of the women’s cells were found locked quite as normal. The night warden was discovered sleeping soundly at her station; the remains of her evening chocolate are thought to contain some powerful sedative.

The Sûreté has conducted a house-to-house search of the 10th arrondissement, but with no success. The fugitives and their presumed accomplice remain at large, and the public is asked to be watchful for suspicious behaviour in ladies in public places.

* * * * *

_Surgeon’s Log  
23 May 1852 _

The captain is working the men harder than I would prefer, but what can I say? For if we are not absolutely prepared to sail at the first possible thaw – well. We are all dead men, anyway.

Their eyes are now much exposed to the combined influence of snow and sunshine, as the ballast is all collected on the still snow-covered land, and firmly frozen in the soil, whence it is dragged on sledges through soft thawing snow to the ship, a work of no light nature. The consequence is that opthalmia (snow blindness) has become very general amongst them, and the cases more severe than at any former period of the commission. Upwards of one third of the able-bodied crew are affected; although I have suggested the precaution of wearing crape veils or glasses, the usual imprudence of the sailor has prevailed.

A second party of men is at work in taking in our supply of water, which was found of good quality in a small lake about a mile distant inland. This continued laborious work—on men who have previously been making great exertions on an inadequate diet—has produced the effects that might have been anticipated. They revert to that altered and haggard aspect which they wore through the worst of the winter, and they complain of a feeling of general languor, weakness and debility. Fortunately, the warmer weather has seen the return of large game, and we have had better luck with hunting than we have seen in many months. Fresh meat is now issued in larger quantity and more frequently. This has the added benefit of permitting Holmes to cease his labours on the ice with his traps and his mice. The man worked tirelessly, and truly, his exertions saved all our lives this dreadful winter. But he is exhausted. He must stop. I shall have the captain order it if I must.

* * * * *

_Ship’s Log  
4 June 1852_

The internal work of the ship has commenced, in making the necessary preparations for sea, which constitute the principal spring operations for this year. The thickness of the ice on the 1st of June was found to be eight inches more than last year. We do not know with any certainty when the ship will be released, but by God, we shall be ready.

* * * * *

_Naturalist’s Log  
9 June 1852_

“Rest,” they say. Ha! _Rest?_ As if a man could rest in the midst of this! It is a waste to sleep an hour – a minute! A specimen of the North American Crane was shot on the 3 rd – it was a noble looking bird, was 2 feet high, had an expanse of wing of 4 feet, and weighed 8 lbs. I have not yet completed my study of its internal processes. The Golden Plover (Charadrius Pluviahs) the Phalerope (Phalaropus Platyrynchos), the Purple Sandpiper (Tringa Maritimal) and the Sanderling (Calidris Arenaria) have been sighted, and I do not yet have specimens. Another wolf adventure had likewise occurred with the boatswain, who, when in pursuit of a deer, saw it suddenly stop on the top of a hill about 300 yards distant, at the same moment several wolves (ten in number) made their appearance in quick succession none of which had been previously seen. They formed a circle around the affrighted deer, and in a crouching position gradually closed on him. Suddenly, as if by some preconcerted signal, they all sprang on the animal, and immediately brought it to the ground, when the work of devouring it commenced. Kennedy reports that he watched the scene for a time – would that I had been there! – then fired two shots at the wolves and advanced towards them, when they decamped. About fifteen minutes had elapsed from the time he first saw the wolves, and there was nothing of the deer remaining but the skin, with the spine, antlers part of the head, and bones of a hind leg, the rest having been devoured. The bones he brought on board for me. They were cleanly picked, with small shreds of flesh adhering, and provided poor consolation for my having missed so fascinating a scene. Two snow geese were also shot by one of our men. Oh! The hunting is excellent now, and the men well pleased to share their findings with me. And then there is John! There is so much I do not know about him; why, I have sought to catalogue the colours in his eyes since we met, and I am not close to making a final determination. There is so very much to do before --.

* * * * *

The Sheffield Female Political Association  
Miss Janine Hawkins, Secretary  
37 Upper Hannover Street

12 June 1852

Darling,

Just a line to say: I am well. I am _well_. I shall forward an address when safety permits. For now, let it suffice to say that we are safe, and we are very far away. Everything is new here! Even _I_ am new! My dear, it is exhilarating! I feel so _alive_.

MW

Post script: if my husband returns as I feel certain he will, tell him – send him my love.

* * * * *

_16 June 1852  
Ship’s Log_

This morning, the first appearance of water on the ice: a pool a few inches deep, and this afternoon the first rain of the season fell. If this year follows the pattern of the last, the thaw shall progress more rapidly now. Ashore, water has begun to run through the little ravines, and the river is almost entirely free of ice. The men are near wild with relief.

* * * * *

_Captain’s Log  
18 June 1852_

All is well with the ship, at last, and yet – all is not well with Sherlock. He has run himself ragged, and will not stop to eat or rest or even speak to me, very much. It is as if he were running from the Devil himself, unwilling or unable to stop. Stamford has had stern words with him, I know, and yet to no effect. He grows so thin and pale, and jerks about, and takes every excuse to spend time with his damned samples and analyses… He will not speak to me about anything of any importance. When I mention home, or London, or anything of the sort, he shuts up like a clam! I should perhaps be concerned that his regard for me has changed, but the way he clings to me at night – no. I cannot believe it. It is something else.

Once, early on in our acquaintance, Sherlock told me about this strange turn in his nature: he has periods in which he works endlessly, tirelessly, madly – his mind prods him ever on and he cannot stop himself. And then – when the job is done – he collapses, prostrate. I have not witnessed such a period before, myself, but I believe this is what is happening to him now.  It is difficult for me to observe it, and yet what can I do? Fighting against him is as impossible as fighting the Arctic ice. This drive is implacable, and it will release him when it wills, and not a moment sooner.

* * * * *

_Naturalist’s Log  
19 June 1852_

The captain has permitted a final expedition over the ice to shore. This morning, I proceeded with an attendant (Donovan – surprisingly acceptable company, as it turns out) to the hills on the opposite side of the bay, to remove some specimens and complete my geological examination of the land, insomuch as any examination can ever be called “complete.” In my course I visited two small islands in the centre of the Bay; they possessed no interest, except in affording evidence of their having been at one period visited by the Esquimeaux in their migration along the coast. A few large masses of sandstone and clay-slate were collected on their summits, and a sort of embankment was thrown up around them, from the pressure of the ice.

There is much more I could record of the mineral composition of the soil, &cetera, but this shall have to await full analysis in my home laboratory. Home! Strange thought.

The excursion was a harassing one. From the progress of thaw, our course lay through soft snow and water, which so benumbed the feet and legs, that we were frequently obliged to stop, remove our boots and stockings, and by friction restore suspended animation, as the worst frost bites result from this cause. We regained the ship with considerable relief after ten hours of constant exertion.

John was in our – was in my cabin when I returned. He pressed supper upon me most tiresomely, and demanded I lay with him and rest. It is impossible. There is so much yet to do. I cannot think of what may come.

* * * * *

Mrs. Turner  
219 Baker Street  
London  
NW1

20 June 1852

Dear Mrs. Turner,

I trust all is well in Baker Street, and that Mr. Turner’s gout does not trouble him excessively.

I have decided to come back to London. There, have I surprised you? The country has begun to stultify. It was necessary for me to be here, for a time, but I have licked my wounds and I have healed, and there is nothing much holding me here after all.

Further, you will be unsuprised to hear that I have found myself with a young charge on my hands: a rather brilliant girl of 23 or 24 who has had a terrible time with a rascal of a father. You know just the type, for you knew my Walter. In any case, I fear that if I make things too comfortable for her here, she shall never recover from her time of darkness. Sometimes, the mother bird must give a little push if she wishes her fledglings to fly.

She is a cracking young thing – it is rather thrilling to imagine what she will make of herself. This is a new age! Things are not as they were when we were girls.

I plan to rent out the rooms at 221, and to take residence myself on the ground floor. Molly shall stay with me for a time, but I should not be at all surprised if she makes other arrangements for herself sooner than later. She is that type, you know; a girl after my own heart.

With fondness,

Martha Hudson

* * * * *

Doctor Joseph Bell  
#9 Harley Street  
London W1

20 June 1852

Dear Sir,

I must apologize that it has not been in my power sooner to acknowledge your January letter, but the shock it inflicted on my already shattered health was such as not to permit me any mental exertion until now.

Thank you, dear sir, for the kindness you have shown to me throughout my life, but most especially in this very difficult past year. I have no way to thank you – no words to express – how much your goodness has buoyed my spirits.

And now, you have done me another good turn, sir! I received, yesterday, a letter from your colleague, Dr. Anderson of Upper Berkeley Street, offering me employment as her front office girl and apprentice, to begin on the first of July! I know this must be your doing, good sir, for I have not had the strength to pursue this position on my own until now.

I shall write to her directly and accept, with thanks, her most generous offer – but I could not do so until I had properly thanked you.

God bless you, sir, and keep you. I promise that you shall never regret having recommended me for this position, nor will Dr. Anderson ever regret her gamble on this poor, unknown girl.

Most sincerely,

Molly Hooper  
78 St Cross Road  
Winchester

* * * * *

_Ship’s Log  
2 July 1852_

All last night and into the morning the wind blew in strongly from the south-east, and soon afterwards a lane of water opened about eighty yards from the ship, extending due east and west, with the ice in the offing drifting to the westward, while that in our vicinity was quite stationary. We waited breathlessly, watching. Towards noon as the wind became south-west it resumed its easterly drift, and a short distance from the ship we saw loose sailing ice, which, could we then have reached, our progress to the eastward might have been considerable—the drift being estimated at upwards of a mile an hour. How agonizing was it to stand on deck, stationary, and see liberation so near at hand, and so out of reach! Such was the case for the rest of the long day. It must be soon.

* * * * *

_Captain’s Log  
2 July 1852_

Three _hours_ of ordering – of begging! And the stubborn bastard won’t –. He is the only one with the experience and scientific knowledge needed to properly set a charge. If he will not, no one can.He makes no sense. No sense at all! It’s as if he does not _wish_ to escape from this dreadful place, does not wish to go home! I know that the man is not heartless. He has nearly worked himself to death these last few months for the sake of his shipmates. He is not – he is not being rational. That is the issue. It is most out of character. I cannot think what to make of it; how to change his mind.

* * * * *

_Naturalist’s Log  
3 July 1852_

He always expects me to be better than I am. How can he not see? I have him here. I have him – he is mine, while we are here. In London? Why would he want with a man such as I?

* * * * *

_Ship’s Log  
3 July 1852_

We experienced no change to our situation over the course of the night, and at an early hour in the morning it was deemed judicious to attempt a more active solution. A small cask of powder was placed beneath the outer barrier at a location most carefully measured out by Holmes, which its explosion fractured; but this did not release us. The necessity of adopting all possible means to liberate the ship became then evident, as it was tantalizing to view, only thirty yards distant, such a fine space of open water that would have secured an easterly advance, had we been prepared to take advantage of it. Our reliance entirely depended on what gunpowder could effect. Holmes placed a heavy charge of 250 pounds in a rum cask, and sank it under the ice, which was about sixteen feet thick, with five fathoms of fuse attached. The report was tremendous, and the shock was felt throughout the ship—then only about twenty-five yards distant from the blast. Its effect on the ice was admirable, smashing it in every direction, and casting numerous fragments on board. The grounded ice to which we were secured, varying in thickness from thirty-five to sixty-seven feet, was rent in several places. This was the largest charge that has ever been used in ice navigation.

The greater part of the obstructing floe was broken up, or fissured in such a manner as to be easily set adrift; which the entire available ship's company, armed with handpicks or some equally efficient implements, shortly effected, much to their own amusement; as they floated on the larger pieces to detach the smaller ones that obstructed the exit of others still greater in magnitude in the rear. Several smaller charges of powder were successfully exploded nearer the ship; still she remained motionless. We then made sail, and hove all aback with a view of loosening her attachments. Anchors were laid out and hove on at the capstan, and the usual expedients of sallying &c., had recourse to. After some time, our efforts were crowned with success, the ship became released, and buoyant, once more ready to move under her canvas.

The men were ordered an extra allowance of meat and spirits. All were overjoyed with our success of the day.

* * * * *

_Captain’s Log  
3 July 1852_

As the ship broke free from the ice at last – _at last!_ – many men broke down in tears of relief. Holmes did, and turned from me that I not see it. As if there is any part of him that I do not –. That I do not love.

He wept, and I felt such unutterable tenderness that I struggled to maintain my own composure.

I love him. I am brave enough to feel it now, and even to say it. I nudged his arm with my own, and when he turned to me, his face wet, I did.

His eyes when I said the words – my God! My God, how I love him. He did not know. How could he not have known? After – after all? He looked at me quite as though I had struck him, cut him to the quick. Then he took a single, shuddering breath, and clasped me tightly to his breast. His body shook; he was laughing – laughing madly.

The men whooped and cheered and celebrated around us at the liberation of the ship; our embrace was remarked upon by none.

And then he was swaying, knees buckling, and he would have fallen to the ground had I not had a firm hold of him. I lowered him down as gently as I could, loosening his collar and calling his name.

His eyes fluttered open. “John,” he breathed; beautiful, my name on his lips.

“Yes, love?” I whispered.

He smiled. “I am so tired. So tired.”

This, then, was the crash after his months of tireless work. “I would imagine so. You’ve barely slept or eaten for months, love!” I could not stop saying it, once I started. “Come along, let’s get you to bed.”

He is safe now, tucked up in my bed – for I would have him nowhere else – and tended by Stamford who wakes him periodically to take some soup and watered brandy. The good doctor assures me he shall recover fully, now that he has allowed himself to rest.

This is the most terrifying thing I have faced these whole two years at sea: I need Sherlock as I need air in my lungs. And yet, the terror is not unbearable. He will never willingly leave me; he cannot, anymore than a heart can leave the body it animates. There is no life for either, apart.

I close now to join him in bed, for it has been a long and tiring day. I do not know what our lives will look like when we arrive home, for I cannot see the future. But we will face it together: that is my vow to him.

* * * * *

_Ship’s Log  
5 July 1852_

Accustomed as we were to the ice, to its caprices, and to its sudden and unexpected alterations, it was a change like that of magic to find that solid mass of ocean which was but too fresh in our memories, which we had looked at for so many months as if it was fixed forever in a repose which nothing could hereafter disturb, suddenly converted into water! Navigable, and navigable to us, who had almost forgotten what it was to float at freedom on the seas. It is at times scarcely to be believed, that our ship once more rises on the waves beneath us, and that when the winds blow, it obeys our will and our hands.

I had some initial concern that our present complement of less than 20 men on active duty would find it difficult to man and sail the ship effectively – but happily, such is not the case. I have had to lengthen the watches, but no man has complained. We are all too pleased to be moving once more.

* * * * *

_Ship’s Log  
27 July 1852_

We make remarkably swift progress eastward. Instead of retracing our route, we have opted to attempt the more southerly passage, keeping within sight of the mainland even when a more direct, and more northernly route would seem to be swifter – a most satisfactory choice, as it happens.  In concert with Mr. Lestrade, I estimate our making the east coast of the continent by mid-August; our passage across the Atlantic to last another 25 or 30 days. We shall purchase supplies from the first returning whaling vessel we meet, and subsist on those, along with fish, for the duration of the crossing. None of us wish to prolong our voyage with a provisioning detour to Halifax if we can possibly avoid it. Certainly, however, we stop at regular intervals along the shore to harvest large quantities of edible antiscorbutic plants, and to hunt. Already, Stamford reports marked improvement in the most affected men.

* * * * *

Appearing in the _Times_ , _Bell’s_ , and _Reynold’s_ , August 15 – August 21, 1852

Rooms for Let: 221 Baker Street  
Comfortable and private rooms for let in Baker Street, with attendance and board; adequately furnished for immediate occupation. Suitable for professional gentlemen. Sitting room plus bedrooms.

Rates upon application between 2:00 and 4:30 pm, Mondays and Wednesdays.

* * * * *

_Ship’s Log  
17 August 1852_

We make excellent progress; indeed, for all the difficulty we encountered on our way west, we now find only smooth waters, good winds, and clear channels in the opposite direction.

Today we took our last look at the shoreline of Lower Canada, many men with curses on their lips. When the land was quite out of sight, we stopped to bury George Milner and Henry Sugden at sea – the men would not have them rest in that accursed land. It was a solemn ceremony, but our minds are lighter now that it is done. No more shall die. Home is within reach.

* * * * *

_Kingmiatook told Osha how the story ends, for Osha to tell her own daughters one day, and their daughters after that:_

Your father, our good Tukkuttok, wished to return to the terrible place: the place on the west side of Anjikuni where we used to go to hunt the spring deer at Kivalliq as they came down through Kazan River. I would not go with him. I would not allow him to take you. He went alone to that place, and this is what he told me.

He said that the igloo where Eqilaglu died, where Qannik and her children died, is caved in and snowed over and gone. He said many prayers at that place, and sang many songs to their spirits.

But also at that place, there was a strange inukshuk standing that he hadn’t seen before. It was made very curiously; it spoke nothing that made sense. It was not of our people. He thought this inukshuk was cursed by the spirit who had left it there, who had caused the mad things to attack us. He thought that if he didn’t pull it down, he’d catch sick and die, or if not he himself, we would die, Osha, you and I. So he took each stone and scattered it to the winds. He worked all day, until everything was gone – until it was torn right down to the ground, so no one will ever find a trace of it. Then he came home to us.

We are safe now, my Osha. We are safe from the mad things.

* * * * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Greek translation: What cannot be said is wept (Sappho). 
> 
> Italian translation by geekerypeekery: What is the process called? Siamo il ghiaccio [we are the ice]. Crystals dissolving and resolidifying, un cicolo terrible, sublime [a terrible and sublime cycle]. He is my solvent and I his. Solvation, that is the name. No, salvazione. Il liquido diviene cristallo [salvation. Liquid becomes crystal], volume becomes mass, becomes an anchor. Mi ancoro in lui e lui in me [Ianchor myself in him and he in me].
> 
> German translation by whatifimacrowdeddesert: If we are to die here, we will at least have had this.
> 
> SUPER BIG THANKS to my consulting linguists! <3
> 
> The poem John cites in his log is Donne’s “The Sun Rising.” 
> 
> Thanks and love, as always, to redscudery: beta extraordinaire. 
> 
> I'm hoping to have the final chapters posted before Christmas. Thanks for reading, lovelies!!!! <3 <3 <3


	11. September – December 1852

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A homecoming.

_13 September 1852  
Ship’s Log, Investigator_

We have been blessed with an easy crossing – and thank God for it, for I doubt our crew of ill and exhausted men could have put up much of a fight against gales of even moderate force. Stamford assures me that the resumption of full rations made possible by our judicious trades with the several whaling vessels we encountered in Baffin Bay has made all the difference to the men. Still, I am grateful the crossing was not taxing.  

Tomorrow we reach London: home. The men anticipate our arrival with a complacent sort of pleasure, as if they cannot really believe our arrival to be so imminent. I cannot blame them; there is a sense of unreality that permeates us all these days. Can it be that our terrible adventure is at an end? I suppose we must all believe it when at last we see London rise before our eyes. It will not be long now.

I cannot conclude these remarks without noticing the noble spirit that has animated the ship's company in the almost super-human exertions, made under the most severe and trying circumstances — such as it has fallen to the lot of but few to encounter. I know what they have endured, I have witnessed their courage and daring in many eventful scenes; I have seen their manly forms gradually shrink under hunger and cold, and have marked their patience and fortitude when suffering from disease. All this they have borne for the sake of a fellow sailor, for Captain Sholto, and although we return without a single _Erebus_ survivor and only the saddest tidings of that ship’s fate, it cannot be said that our labour has been in vain.

* * * * *

 _The Daily Telegraph_  
15 September 1852  
Shipping News, seventh entry (page nine)

Private ship _Investigator_ under Captain John Watson has docked in London, returning from a Northern expedition not less than a year later than expected. Details on cargo and expedition goals are scarce, although noted naturalist Sherlock Holmes is believed to have been aboard and thus the mission may be assumed to have been exploratory and scientific in nature.

* * * * *

Message hand-delivered to ship _Investigator_  
London docks  
15 September, 1852  
  
Captain Watson,

Welcome home, and heartiest congratulations on your safe return. Please join me immediately at the Diogenes Club for a full report and accounting of your voyage. Bring all ship’s logs and rosters, and do expect to be thorough.

I shall expect you early this afternoon.

Most sincerely,

M. Holmes

* * * * *

_TELEGRAPHIC MESSAGE: Sherlock Holmes to Mycroft Holmes (15 September 1852)_

SOD OFF MYCROFT STOP HE NEEDS TO REST STOP COME TO THE DOCKS STOP HOTEL IBIS STOP OR WAIT UNTIL TOMORROW

* * * * *

_TELEGRAPHIC MESSAGE: Mycroft Holmes to Sherlock Holmes (15 September 1852)_

GRATIFIED TO LEARN OF SAFE RETURN STOP YOU SEEM CONCERNED ABOUT CAPTAIN WATSON’S WELLBEING STOP I TRUST YOU HAVE BEEN AS CAREFUL WITH YOUR OWN STOP TOMORROW AFTERNOON THEN STOP COME TOGETHER STOP

* * * * *

15 September 1852

Mrs. Mary Watson  
23 Little Eastcheap Street  
London

Mary,

A brief note, my darling, to tell you I am home; we docked in London this morning. It is inexcusable to send a letter instead of coming myself, I know, but do forgive me if you can. I have never been quite so exhausted in my life. It was all I could do to walk across from the ship to the Ibis. I am well – do not fear – I am well. I simply must rest. Come to me here, quick as you can. If I do not see you here, I shall come home to you on the morrow. I have much to tell you.  God! I shall not rest easy until I lay my eyes on you and assure myself of your wellbeing.

With love,

Your husband John

Room 7  
Hotel Ibis  
London Docks

* * * * *

16 September 1852

Miss Molly Hooper  
54 Oxford Street  
London

My dearest Molly,

I am home. I am home, praise God, at last! And the first thought in my head since I saw London – finally! – appear in the distance, has been to come to you, to look on you, to touch you, to hold you, to have you for my own.

Ah, Molly. You dear, precious thing. It has been the thought of you that has sustained me these past, terrible months, and my faith in the constancy of your love. But all of our trials are now past!  I would endure a dozen – a hundred! – such miseries to spare you pain; I would do all within my power to guard your peace and happiness.

Make your arrangements with your father, if you can; I will wait for you at noon tomorrow at our usual rendezvous spot. If you cannot, write to me here, and guard your letter from _him_. I plan to marry you, Molly Hooper, the first chance I get. My pay from this expedition will be enough to purchase a little cottage where we can be happy together for the rest of our lives. I shall find work in the docks, for I have had quite enough of life at sea. No circumstance can now keep us apart.

Your loving,

Gregory  
Room 11  
Hotel Ibis  
London Docks

* * * * *

 _16 September 1852_  
_Personal Diary: John Watson_  
_11:00_

Never before have I kept a diary, but it seems I have grown accustomed aboard ship to recording my thoughts, and now I do not wish to do without it. When I woke this morning after almost 24 hours of sleep, I sent a boy out to fetch me a cheap notebook and some clothing for myself and Sherlock, for our trunks have not yet been unloaded from the _Investigator_. I then ordered up a breakfast: tea and toast, kippers, deviled kidneys, stewed fruits, bread, cheese, ale. The luxuries of this dingy dockland hotel are – almost unimaginable. I look around and cannot quite believe that I am really here.

Strange, too, to be so suddenly separated from the men with whom I have endured the most difficult two years of my life. A few are here in the Ibis with us – Lestrade has taken a room down the hall – but many have simply vanished back to the lives they left behind them when first they stepped aboard _Investigator_. One cannot blame them, but it is strange – and not entirely pleasant – to be without them.

I have not heard from Mary. I begin to worry. Surely, had she received my letter, she would have flown to me – or at the very least, sent an immediate reply. I must discharge my last duty as expedition captain and see to my patron this afternoon, but after that – I will find her.

Sherlock dealt with the telegrams yesterday, for I was almost delirious with exhaustion and in no fit state to do anything but collapse. But this morning, he has shown me. Mr. M. Holmes requires all of the expedition logs and a full accounting of the journey. Of course, I knew he should, and yet – so much of what went on… I do not wish to share it. I feel that it is not for him, nor for anyone who was not there.

I would sooner burn my Captain’s Log than turn it over to anyone, let alone Sherlock’s own brother. God! I shall bring the Ship’s Log, and hope that it will suffice. Nay – it _will_ suffice, and that is the end of it.

How strange it is to be back in London. How loud! The noise outside my window just now is appalling – I am quite dizzy with it.  

Sherlock tells me we may put Mycroft off for as long as we wish; he is most concerned for my health. I desire to remain within our patron’s good graces, however, for I have it in mind that each surviving crew member shall receive a substantial additional financial benefit on top of his contracted salary to account for the damage done to his health and the hardship each man has endured. I do not wish to anger our benefactor before my men are recompensed.

It is strange, too, to sleep alone. We cannot risk discovery – not here, where consequences would be so dire. It is dreadfully cold and I shiver constantly when Sherlock is not near, as if the arctic had taken up residence under my very skin, so that I can never shed it but shall always feel myself within its icy, intractable grip. He is worried, I think, about what will happen when Mary comes – although he knows how well I love him. I do not know how to explain that he need not worry. I love my wife; and still, he is my heart.

* * * * *

 _TELEGRAPHIC MESSAGE: Janine Hawkins to John Watson (16 September 1852)_  

HAVE JUST HEARD OF YOUR SAFE RETURN STOP THANK GOD STOP APPOLOGIES FOR DELAY STOP MARY IS ABROAD STOP THE HOUSE IN EASTCHEAP STREET IS SOLD STOP I FOLLOW THIS MESSAGE BY TRAIN AND WILL EXPLAIN ALL 

* * * * * 

 _16 September 1852_  
Ship’s Naturalist’s Log  
Final entry 

In lieu of my complete expedition logs, which are filled with notes of a private nature and trifling observations that will interest none but myself, I offer this summary of my scientific work and findings from the duration of the _Investigator’s_ expedition. In the coming months, I will prepare several manuscripts detailing the specifics of my findings and outlining new theories based upon these. 

The following is a list of the most significant fauna and flora met with in the polar sea during the voyage, of which specimens and samples were obtained. Full and detailed information is in the appended files, with specimens preserved in the Naturalist’s personal collection, drawings and anatomical details inclusive. Several hundred more minor entries shall be appended in future months.  

MAMMALIA.    
Trichecus Rosmarus, Baloena Mysticetus, Beluga Borealis, Monadon Monoceros, Ursus Maritimus, Phoca Vitulina, Bos Moschatus, Cervus Tarandus, Canis Lagopus, Canis Greenlandicus, Canis Argentatus, Lepus Glacialis, Mus Hudsonias, Canis Lupus, Mustek Erminea. Colymbus Glacialis, Colymbus Arcticus, Colymbus Septentrionalis, Grus Canadensis, Anas Bernicla, Anser Hyperboreus. Anas Molissima, Anas Spectabilis, Anas Caudacuta, Anas Glacialis, Larus Glaucus, Larus Argentatus, Larus Tridactylus, Lestris Parasiticus, Sterna Arctica, Tetrao Lagopus, Tetrao Ttupestris, Tetrao Saliceti, Strix Nyctea, Procellaria Glaciilis, Cervus Corax, PringilJa, Eraberiza Nivalis, Caprimulgus Americanus, Hierofalco Candicans, Charadrius Pluvialis, Charadrius Hiaticula, Phalaropus Platyrynchos, Tringa Maritima, Calidris Arenaria.  

PISCES.    
Salmo, Blennius Polaris, Cottus Quadricornis, Cottus Polaris. 

INSECTA.    
Mosquito (Culex Reptans), two species of Caterpillars (Lepidoptera), genus Bombyx, and two of the Diptera were obtained; the species in either was not determined.

INVERTEBRATA.    
Dianoea Glacialis, Cyanea Arctica, Asterias Polaris, Gummarus Lorictaus, Gammarus Boreus, NaisCiliata, Nytnphum Grossipes. Nymphum Hirsutus, Alpheus Aculeatus, Alpheus Polaris, Clio Borealis, Limacina Arctica, Gammarus Lorietaus.  

Preparations include the skins, skeletons, and such of the viscera as I considered worthy of preservation. A few specimens of the crustaceous and acephalous animals, not included in the above list, I have reserved for more accurate examination than it lay in my power to bestow on them aboard ship.  

I may remark, that in the Western Islands (Baring and Melville), where the soil is arenaceous, animal life is more abundant than elsewhere; this gradually decreases to the east, where the limestone formation generally prevails. But the greater number of Bears, Seals, Walruses, and Sea-fowl met with – although these are more difficult to procure than Musk-Oxen or Reindeer – by their great size afford sufficient compensation; the carbonaceous element of the food (fat), the great supporter of respiration and life, being so largely supplied.  

The following is a list of the plant specimens collected. Full lists of all species identified with place markers and drawings in appended files.  

FROM THE COAST OF NORTH AMERICA.    
Seuecio aureus, Arteraesia Vulgaris, var. Silesii, Leucarthemum Arcticum, Arbutus alpina, Androsace chamce jasme, Salix Polaris, Triticum repens, var. purpureum, Poalaxa, Dupontia Fischeri, Calamagrosis stricta, Festuca brevifolia.  

FROM BARING ISLAND, OR BANKS LAND.    
Ranunculus nivalis, Papaver nudicaule L. (abundant), Cardamine digitala, Draba alpina glacialis et algida, Draba incana, Draba rupestris, Cochlearia Anglica, Stellaria Iongipes, Lupinus perennis, Dryas integrifolia, Potentilla nana, Saxifraga ilagellaris, Saxifraga cosspitosa, Saxifraga opposite folia, Erigeron , Polemonium coeruleum. Primula Hornemanniana. Phlox Richardeonii, Oxyria reniformis, Salix myrtilloides, Salix speciosa, Catabrosa aquatic, Carex rigida.  

FROM PRINCE ALBERT'S LAND.    
Anemone Richardsonii, Caltha Arctica, Hesperis Harkeri, Vesicaria Arctica, Platypetalum purpurascens, Entrema Edwardsii, Linum perenne, Hedysarum boreale, Oxytropis nigresccns, Epilobium latifolium, Epilobium alpimim, Hippuris Vulgaris, Saxifraga Hirculus, Saxifraga aizoides, Saxifraga hieraciifolia, Chysospleniuin alteruifolium, Aiteinesia borealis, eucanthemum integrifolium, Campanula linifolia. Vaccinium religinosum, Androsace Septentrionalis, Pedicularis capitata, Pedicularis Sudetica, Armeria Avctica, Salix myrsiuites, Salix Richardsonii, Salix desertorum, Salix reticulata, Glyceria Arctica, Deschampsia ccespitosa, Hierochloe pauciflora, Calamagrostis purpurascens, Calpadium latifolium, Eriophorum vaginatum, Carex scirpoidea, Carex incurva, Carex stans, Carex compacta, Carex vaginata, Carex fuliginosa, Carex ustulata, Elyna spicata, Cystopteris fragilis.  

FOUND ON BOTH BARING ISLAND AND PRINCE ALBERT'S LAND.    
Ranunculus affinis, Draba hirta, Silene acaulis. Lychnis apetala, Honekeneya peploides, Cerastium alpinum, Hedysarum McKenzii, Phaca aboriginorura, Oxytropis Campestris, Oxytropis Uralensis, var. Arctica, Potentilla ninca, Taxifraga tricuspidata, Saxifraga nivalis, Saxifraga cernua, Saraxacum dens-leonis, Senecio frigidus, Senecio palustris, var. Congestus, Arnica Angustifolia, Erigeron uniflorum, Nardosmia corymbosa, Cassiopea tetragona, Castilleja pallida, Pedicularis hirsuta, Polygonum viviparum, Elymus arenarius, Alopicurus alpinus, Eriophorum capitatum, Eriophorum polystachum, Equisotum arvense. 

In closing, I may say that although the difficulties of an Arctic voyage are considerable and the scientist may suffer great privations and hardships, I have never had a more educative experience and I am all gratitude to Captain Watson and his excellent men for extending me the privilege of their forbearance. 

* * * * * 

 _Personal Diary: John Watson_  
_22 September 1852_

Still very tired; my body feels leaden and I sleep away many hours of each day. Stamford has come to see me every day since we docked, as he has kindly done with all the crew, and tells me it is no more than I should expect. He prescribes only rest and food in large quantity and variety, to which I am pleased to submit. Indeed, I could hardly do otherwise, for Sherlock all but guards my door, and brings me meals at regular intervals. He looks tired himself, but he insists that he slept adequately during our crossing, which is certainly the case. He will not sleep with me now even in the daylight hours for fear of discovery. I suppose he is prudent, in the ways he cares for me. I only wish I could lie with him, or even just beside him; it is the only time I feel at all warm.

I have just two events of note to report.

The first: We’ve left the Ibis just once since our arrival, to report to Mr. Mycroft Holmes at his very odd club on the afternoon of the 16th September. I was hesitant to bring Sherlock, knowing his temperament, but after all – they are brothers, and it is not for me to stand between them.

Our interview was surprisingly brief, although a silent war seemed to wage between the Holmeses the entire time. I felt entirely bewildered and not yet well enough, or quick enough, to follow. I handed over the Ship’s Log, as well as Sherlock’s summation of his own log, and a lengthy statement from Stamford, and explained that my personal log would hold no interest to him. Sherlock glared quite forcibly, then, and Mr. Mycroft Holmes only blinked and nodded, paging through the log.

“Sholto is dead, obviously?” he asked. His voice was mild, but his expression was grim.

I nodded. “He is, God rest his soul, and all his men. We discovered the site of the _Erebus’s_ sinking – almost exactly where you suspected it would be, sir – and several camps made by the last surviving crewmen. They are all dead of cold and hunger and sickness. Full details are related in the log.” Sholto’s last logs – the most damning evidence against him – would be kept forever locked in my strongbox, with Sherlock and I the only men in the world to know the complete story.

“And the Passage?”

“Remains untraversed and unclaimed.”

Mr. Holmes drew a deep breath. “It is not the outcome I had hoped for.”

I said nothing. I could not imagine his motives for involving himself in the case in the first place. I shivered suddenly, and moved nearer to the great fire burning on the hearth. Sherlock moved to stand beside me, and I felt the ghost of a touch to my back; it was as warming as the fire itself.

Mr. Holmes was at the window, staring out unseeingly.

After a time, Sherlock sighed. “We are exhausted, brother. Ask your questions, and allow us to depart.”  

Mr. Holmes looked up sharply at Sherlock, then, raising an eyebrow. To my astonishment, Sherlock flushed.

“Very well,” the man said. “I shall read the ship’s log thoroughly, and will no doubt have many questions afterwards – but that can wait. Tell me, though, did Sholto himself leave no logs?”  

I shrugged. “We discovered some early logs and letters – they are appended to the _Investigator’s_ log. There is nothing of great import.”

Mr. Holmes’s eyes narrowed at that, but he nodded. “Go and rest,” he said. “We shall meet again when you have recovered your strength, and when I have had an opportunity to read through the logs.”

I thanked him, and turned to exit the room, but Sherlock gripped my arm and held me fast. “There is one last matter to which we must attend,” he said, and went on to most eloquently and effectively argue for the payment of a large financial bonus to each surviving member of our crew. His brother’s eyebrows rose precipitously, and had nearly disappeared into his hair by the time Sherlock had stated his case.

“Please, brother,” he concluded. “These men saved my life more than once. There is no amount of money that can truly compensate them for the horrors they have endured these past years, but if we can make their lives a little easier now, a little more comfortable – we owe it to them to so do.”

“Of course,” Mr. Holmes said smoothly. “Arrangements have already been made.”

“Thank you.” Sherlock and I spoke in unison, and that was the end of it. I have no doubt that Mr. Holmes will interrogate me most thoroughly about the log at some future time, but for now I am too exhausted to worry overmuch. Sherlock tucked me into a cab and we returned at once to the Ibis where I fell immediately into a deep sleep.

The only other event of note upon which I must report is a brief visit from Miss Janine Hawkins, my wife’s very dear friend and confidante. Miss Hawkins brought news of Mary that filled me by turns with alarm, relief, and with breathless admiration. I fear to commit the details to writing, even in this private forum. It is not my story to tell.

Mary is well, and has gone to America for the foreseeable future. I believe she is living her life with great integrity and perhaps even joy – and I am glad. I am nothing but proud of my wife, and so very glad for her. Miss Hawkins has means of sending letters, and has agreed to forward communiqués on my behalf.

Mary shall always be my wife, and I shall always love her with a husband’s love. Perhaps one day we will visit America and I shall look upon her face once more. But for now: I am accustomed to loving an absence. This time, it does not hurt so very much.   

* * * * *

19 September 1852   
Landlord  
221 Baker Street  
London NW 1

Dear Sir, 

Having recently returned to London from voyages abroad, I find myself in need of a suite of rooms to accommodate myself and an associate. We are professional gentlemen of most respectable habits, I a naturalist of some repute, and he a former ship’s captain.  

We discovered your advertisement in an old edition of the _Times_ left behind in our current, temporary lodgings, and wondered if your rooms are still available. The location would suit us admirably. Two bedrooms and a sitting room are required, with minimal attendance.  

I shall call upon you tomorrow afternoon at 4:00. If this does not suit, please reply by return post.  

Sincerely, 

Mr. S. Holmes 

* * * * *

Distributed to each surviving crew member of the _Investigator_ , and to the families of the men who died in service, with all compliments and thanks, from M. Holmes: the sum of £80 in addition to contracted wages.  

* * * * * 

21 September 1852   
My dearest Mary, 

I trust this letter will reach you, although I do not know when or where. I write only to tell you that I am back in London, that Miss Hawkins has explained all, and that I love and miss you.  

Sholto is dead. He died in terrible circumstances many months before we reached him. I do not know what to say about our expedition or its discoveries except that it was horrible and it was wonderful in ways I cannot convey. Something has happened to me, Mary. Something broken inside me has mended; I do not know how.

And, too -- there is love. There is someone I should very much like you to meet one day.  

I wish you well in your work, and happiness in your life. You are one of the few souls in the world to ever truly have known me, and I thank you for it. I thank you for seeing me.

I remain always, 

Your loving husband, 

John Watson 

PS. Please write through Miss Hawkins. I cannot now see you, but I would see letters formed by your hand. 

* * * * * 

 _TELEGRAPHIC MESSAGE: Mycroft Holmes to Sherlock Holmes (20 September 1852)_  

UNSATISFACTORY STOP MOST UNSATISFACTORY STOP THE INFORMATION CONTAINED IN THE SHIPS LOG IS NOT SUFFICIENT STOP WATSON MUST HAND OVER HIS OWN LOG AND YOU MUST BOTH TELL THE COMPLETE STORY OF YOUR VOYAGE STOP IT WILL NOT STAND STOP 

* * * * *

T _ELEGRAPHIC MESSAGE: Sherlock Holmes to Mycroft Holmes (20 September 1852)_  

SOME THINGS ARE NOT FOR YOU STOP

* * * * *

23 September 1852

Mr. Gregory Lestrade  
Hotel Ibis  
London Docks

Dear Gregory, 

Please excuse my delay in replying to your letter: it took several days to reach me as I am no longer living in Oxford Street.

I was sorry to miss the rendezvous you suggested – but perhaps it is for the best. I have been thrown into such confusion that I hardly know where to leave myself. I thank God for your safe return, Gregory. I thank God for it! I despaired of it, may God forgive me. So much has changed! So much. _I_ have changed, Gregory. How much, I do not know.  

Thank God that you are home. I have much to tell you.  Elizabeth – I mean Dr. Anderson, my employer – needs me tomorrow, and the day after that, and I would not disappoint her. Can you come to call on the 28th? There is a small sitting room in my current lodgings that will suit us admirably. Do you know, I don’t believe we have ever spent a moment indoors together!

Oh, Gregory. Such a great many things have changed. 

Your loving, 

Molly  
20 Upper Berkeley Street  
London 

* * * * *

 _Personal Diary: John Watson  
__23 September 1852_  

At 08:00 this morning, a carriage stopped outside the Ibis and four rather large and burly gentlemen pulled Sherlock and me from our breakfast. We were quite forcibly hustled into the carriage without a word; I would have resisted, but Sherlock’s look of utter disdain and his rolling eyes told me all I needed to know about who was behind our little abduction.  

“I’ve been ignoring his telegrams,” he muttered to me. “But even for Mycroft, this is excessively tiresome.”  

I hid a smile behind my hand. The Holmes brothers are more alike than either would care to admit. 

The carriage took us not to the Diogenes Club, but rather to a grand private residence in Bennet Street. Our ostensible captors escorted us to Mr. Holmes’s private study, where the man himself sat like Solomon behind an imposing oak desk.  

“Really, Mycroft,” Sherlock chided. “This was hardly necessary. John was in the middle of his breakfast!”  

I snorted, but Mr. Holmes appeared unamused.   

“Franklin will bring tea,” he snapped. “You have both behaved most irresponsibly! I have read this so-called log, and it will not do. It will not do at all!”  

I felt the colour slowly blanch from my face, but Holmes, seated beside me, slumped casually back into his chair as if he had not the last concern.  All I knew – the only thing that mattered to me in that moment – was that James Sholto’s reputation be preserved, and that no taint of scandal or any disreputable conduct ever mar his memory. I had failed to rescue him, but I should not fail in this.  

“And what, pray, is the problem?” Sherlock asked carelessly.  

Mr. Holmes practically growled. “Details, Sherlock!” he bellowed. “I cannot form useful conclusions without facts – why do you imagine I sent you on this fool’s errand? For _science_? Please. I need facts. I need your observations! I need to see what you saw, and know what you know. This” – he gestured scoffingly to the ship’s log that lay on his desk – “this tells me only that you are obscuring the vital facts of the case.”  

“And why should you care?” I dared to ask. “I have faithfully reported the truth: Sholto and his men are dead, and the _Erebus_ destroyed. Why need you know more than this?”  

Mycroft leaned over his desk, looking at me intently. “This story is larger than you could possibly imagine, Captain Watson, and it’s larger than me. The race to discover the Northwest Passage is nothing less than a battle for the supremacy of the empire.”  

Sherlock stirred. “Then it is a battle we must lose, and we are fools to base the so-called supremacy of our empire on such an uncertain foundation.”  

Mycroft shook his head. “I’m afraid it is not up to us, brother. We are but ‘foot soldiers in the relentless campaign of progress’ – those are Her Majesty’s words, not mine. If we do not find and claim the passage, someone else will – and how should that serve us? Sholto has come closer than anyone else, and we must – we _must_ – know the details of his failure.”  

And then, before my eyes, I saw the scene shift, and instead of Mr. Holmes’s fine study with its tall windows, its good leather armchairs and shelves upon shelves of beautiful books, I felt myself transported once more to the vast fields of ice and snow from which I had so recently returned, and it seemed for a moment that I was flying, soaring above, and I saw bright pools of crimson in the snow, and I saw Esquimeaux bleeding and dying horribly, and the _Erebus_ , collapsing under the ice with men staring up from the depths of the icy sea with eyes like dead things, and there, too, was Sholto, and he was lying naked in the snow, and he was dying. They were all dying together. 

I was shaking my head already when I came back to myself with a convulsive shudder.  

“No,” I said hoarsely. “No.” 

Beside me, Sherlock took a breath to speak, but I forestalled him. “This is not a battle, sir, and what you call the march of progress may advance in many ways. It is narrow – dangerous and narrow – to conceive of it as a war. If this is your project I will not aid it.” 

Mr. Holmes sat back in his chair. His neutral face had flickered a little during my speech, but he said nothing for some time.  

Franklin knocked discreetly and came in with a tea tray, but I rose before he could pour.

I wished Mr. Holmes a polite good morning, and left the room without looking back. I shall not revisit this conversation.  

An instant later, I heard Sherlock fall into step behind me. “I think you’ll find him as intractable as I am – if not more so,” he called over his shoulder as we departed. His voice was unutterably fond. 

* * * * * 

 _TELEGRAPHIC MESSAGE from Mycroft Holmes to the Private Secretary to Her Majesty the Queen (23 September 1852)_  

IN STRICTEST CONFIDENCE 

PLEASE INFORM HER MAJESTY NO FURTHER INFORMATION OBTAINED STOP THE PASSAGE REMAINS UNDISCOVERED AND UNCLAIMED STOP SUGGEST CONTACT NAVY TO ARRANGE NEXT ATTEMPT STOP CAPTAIN WATSON NOT AVAILABLE STOP 

* * * * *

 _Personal Diary: John Watson  
__3 October 1852_  

My God. Sherlock – dear, marvellous, brilliant Sherlock – has found us a home! A home that we can make together, where we can shut the door to the world and fall together in perfect safety and security. We can even share a bed. _Our_ bed. _Our_ home. How very well it sounds.  

We have two bedrooms – the second for propriety, more than anything – and a large and comfortable private sitting room. The fire is always lit. We are always warm.  

We moved in on the first of the month: easy enough, for we both have several cases and a trunk from the ship, and that is all. The landlady, a Mrs. Hudson by name, has provided all the necessary furnishings with most endearing good humour, and her attendance is satisfactorily discreet. For all her fussy ways, I believe she is sharper than she pretends. She is already extremely fond of Sherlock, and rather risks spoiling the man. It warms me, to see it.  

To our mutual surprise, Mr. Mycroft Holmes sent over a crate of extremely specialized laboratory equipment for Sherlock’s use, and a veritable library of what I believe must be every book published in England in the last two years for my “edification and entertainment when Sherlock is immersed in his work.” Do you know, I quite think he approves of our little arrangement?  

I have been thinking of what to do with myself, now that our expedition is ended. I have not yet fully recovered, nor has Sherlock, but Stamford assures me that we shall both be right as rain within the next several months. Money is apparently not a consideration for the Holmes brothers, and Sherlock assures me that I need not work if I do not wish to, but I remember how very miserable I used to be – haunting the docks and walking endlessly, aimlessly... I would not risk a return to such a life. Sherlock has his work to occupy his time, and I must have something, as well. I think sometimes of writing the story of our Arctic adventure, as so many expedition commanders have done before me, but I cannot quite see how the thing could be done both safely and truthfully. Sherlock snorts and insults my “lazy faculty of creation” when I speak of it; he believes it would simply require careful phrasing and transposition of facts. I wonder... 

Speaking of Sherlock, he has abandoned his horrible fascination with viscera in favour of a new intellectual obsession with ravens, about which he has decided to write a monograph. He will tell me nothing of the contents, but slaves over it for hours each day, darting about on occasion to visit various libraries and laboratories around the city. The book is apparently based upon his observations in the Arctic, but still requires extensive research. He claims that it will make his name, and I have learned not to doubt him.  He is happy – and he is extraordinary, my Sherlock.

If the remainder of my life is dedicated to nothing more than witnessing his, I will consider it a life well lived.  

* * * * *

 _Manuscript in preparation (November 1852)_  
_The Arctic Raven: Some Thoughts and Observations Upon the Corvus corax with Particular Attention Paid to Social and Mating Behaviours_  
_By Sherlock Holmes_  
  
The common raven (Corvus corax), also known as the northern raven, is a large black passerine bird. Found across the Northern Hemisphere, it is the most widely distributed of all corvids. There are at least eight subspecies with little variation in appearance, although recent research has demonstrated significant anatomical differences among populations from various regions. It is one of the two largest corvids, alongside the thick-billed raven, and is possibly the heaviest; at maturity, the common raven averages 25 inches in length and 2.6 pounds in mass. Common ravens can live up to 21 years in the wild, a lifespan exceeded among passerines by only a few Australasian species such as the satin bowerbird and perhaps the lyrebirds.  

Perhaps the most interesting yet poorly-understood characteristic of the raven is its social behaviour. Famously, ravens mate for life, with each mated pair defending a territory. This pair bond is of such duration and strength that it has earned for it the term "symbiosis."  And yet, the associations into which feeding birds enter are many and varied. There exists a great diversity of interconnections within what we may somewhat fancifully term raven society, and this diversity is not without order. Surveying the many types of flocking or associations, one sees that they can be arranged into both simple and complex series. Not only that, but these series inter-relate, until rather than a chain or a "tree" we have a whole network or fabric. Indeed, any analogy used to express the layered sophistication of these social interactions is necessarily imperfect, for the data tends to exceed modes of categorization in ways that are both frustrating and exhilarating to the formally trained naturalist.   

[…] 

* * * * *

 _Daily Telegraph, page 12  
16 November 1852_  

We publish the Banns of Marriage between Mr. Gregory Lestrade of Wapping and Miss Margaret Hooper of Upper Berkley Street. This is the first time of asking. If any know cause or just impediment why these two persons should not be joined together in Holy Matrimony, ye are to declare it.

* * * * *

 _Manuscript in preparation (December 1852)_  
_A Study in White: Being an Account of the Arctic Adventures of the Ship Investigator_  
_By John Watson, Captain_

Preface 

In this story are contained many stories, and perhaps it appears contradictory to say that all of them are true – and yet, I see no inherent contradiction.  My friend Sherlock Holmes would say that I must seek truth above all things, using facts to support the telling; I cannot do so, however, without acknowledging the many truths that twine together, always, pulling each other this way and that, growing stronger as they grow into each other.

This is a story about James Sholto. No. No – it is a story about a brave voyage of glorious discovery in lands where the stories we tell dissolve into nonsense and cease to mean anything at all; lands where we are forced to write new ones. It is about a foolhardy voyage into a world made of ice, brittle and groaning under the weight of too many stories. It is a story about Sherlock Holmes. It is an adventure. It is a love story. It is a tragedy. It is a war story. It is a story of friendship. It is an elegy. It is a travelogue. It is an end. It is a beginning.  

The only thing I know about this story is that I must write it; I can do nothing else. Perhaps you will see aspects of your own story reflected back to you in these pages – perhaps, indeed, every story belongs, in some way, to every man. And then again, perhaps not. Perhaps you must write your own. Perhaps we all must.  

* * * * *

_Uukkarnit, the annatko from Igluligaarjuk, speaks the story every year as the long night begins:_

My mother, and her father, and her father’s mother, and many before them, spoke of the Tuniit, the people who inhabited the land before the Inuit came. They were a different stock of people: taller and stronger, with the muscularity of polar bears. A Tuniit man could lift a 1,000 pound seal on his back, or drag a whole walrus. They built stone longhouses that still stand today: you can see them at Mallikjuag and Nunguvik. They might stand forever. Some say the Tuniit slept with their legs in the air to drain the blood from their feet and make them lighter. Some say they could outrun a caribou.

But also, they were shy. They were silent. They were easily put to flight, and it was seldom heard that they killed others. The Inuit took over the best hunting camps and displaced the Tuniit, who would not fight them. Soon enough, these strange people disappeared from the land. They died or they moved on. No one knows how they went.

 _Aya aya aya_  
_I am not the Tuniit_  
_I will not disappear from the land._  
_Aya aya aya_

 _Aya aya aya_  
_We are not the Tuniit_  
_We will not disappear from the land._  
_Aya aya aya_

 _Aya aya aya_  
_We will not disappear from this land._  
_Aya aya aya_  
_Aya aya aya_  
_Aya aya aya_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock’s raven manuscript is based on this: https://archive.org/stream/socialfeedingbeh00rand/socialfeedingbeh00rand_djvu.txt  
> It’s a tiny bit anachronistic, but I do think Sherlock is a man ahead of his time.


	12. Epilogue: 2014

_CBC News  
Sir James Sholto’s long-lost _ HMS Erebus _believed found_  
By Garrett Hinchey, CBC News  
Posted: Aug 12, 2014 10:46 AM CT

Prime Minster Stephen Harper today announced the history-making discovery of the _HMS Erebus_ , British explorer James Sholto’s ship lost in the doomed 1845 Sholto Expedition to discover the Northwest Passage.

Sitting in a room decorated with a large map of the country, with the phrase “A STRONG CANADA” repeated across it in both official languages, Harper looked elated. “This is truly a historic moment for Canada,” he said, announcing the successful culmination of five years of searching in the Arctic and the investment of millions of dollars of public money.

“Sholto’s ship is an important part of Canadian history given that his expedition, which took place nearly 200 years ago, laid the foundations of Canada’s Arctic sovereignty,” Harper said. “This discovery confirms, without shadow of doubt, Canada’s claim to our Arctic lands.”

A video shared with CBC News and produced by the Arctic Research Foundation appears to show images of the submerged _HMS Erebus_. "Divers spotted wine bottles, tables, and empty shelving. They saw a desk with open drawers, a cannon, ceramic plates… It’s quite extraordinary," ARF spokesman Adrian Schimnowski said by email. Recovery crews plan to retrieve the bell from the _Erebus_ within the coming weeks.

A statement issued Monday afternoon by Parks Canada said the organization "is excited about the reports of the discovery of the wreck of _HMS Erebus_. Parks Canada is currently working with our partners to validate the details of the discovery."

Academic and amateur historians alike are similarly excited. The discovery has the potential to alter forever our understanding of the Sholto Expedition's disastrous end,” says Peter Flemming, a historian with UCN.

One mystery still remains: the location of Sholto’s grave. Whether he went down with his ship, or whether he and his men escaped the sinking and died on the ice, no one has yet discovered. The man who came closest, Captain John Watson of the 1850 _Investigator_ expedition, wrote and published an account of his findings that Flemming calls “maddeningly, almost deliberately vague.”

Regardless, stakeholders from the highest government officials, to tourism promoters, to academics expect this new discovery to reinvigorate public interest in Canada’s north.

* * * * *

_Nunatsiaq News  
Inuk Hunters share in _ Erebus _discovery_  
By Lisa Gregoire, Special to Nunatsiaq News  
Posted December 02, 2014, 10:00 am

The recent discovery of the _HMS Erebus_ was made possible only with the assistance of Inuit oral history, says Nunavut Arctic College historian Louis Kamookak. Kamookak helped researchers pinpoint the location of the wreck after repeatedly encountering oral histories suggesting the ship was crushed in ice somewhere to the west of Tuktoyaktuk.

It is reported the _Erebus_ was found just off the south shore of Hendrickson Island – exactly where numerous oral histories suggested it would be. Kamookak says he spent many years collecting these stories. “Before contact, we didn’t have a way of writing, but although we Inuit people didn’t write stories, we memorized them and told them over and over so we could pass them down,” he explains.

One day last July, fisher Sammy Kogvik approached him to say that he’d noticed a large piece of wood sticking out of the sea ice to the southwest of Hendrickson Island, which looked like a mast.

"We were boating across towards Hendrickson to go put nets out," Kogvik tells us. "And when we got about halfway between the island and the shore, I looked up to my left, and there was something weird sticking out of the pack ice. I told my buddy, 'what is that sticking out of the ice?' And he didn't know."

“When we got back to Tuk later that week, we asked my grandfather about it.” Kogvik’s grandfather had been a participant in Kamookak’s research. He directed Kogvik to contact Kamookak right away.

Between Kamookak’s previous work and this new find, an Arctic Research Foundation vessel already searching the area quickly realized that the _Erebus_ might have been found, and changed course to make straight for the site.

"Every time there's a finding, it's kind of a sad feeling," Kamooka said. “It’s the beginning of scientific study of the artifact, but it’s the end of a great story.”

Parks Canada has agreed to seek permission from Nunavut's director of heritage before divers remove any _Erebus_ artifacts. "The discovery of _HMS Erebus_ is important for Canada, reflecting the ongoing and valuable role of Inuit traditional knowledge in the search and making a significant contribution to completing the Sholto story,” a Parks Canada spokesperson said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here it is: the last entry! I cannot thank you enough for reading and encouraging and cheering me on. Truly, I feel so incredibly lucky to have such kind, generous, intelligent, playful readers. <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 
> 
> SUPER DUPER THANKS to redscudery, who beta'd every chapter of this and who made it so much stronger with her excellent feedback. I love you, lady. <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 
> 
> Two items that may be of some interest:   
> 1\. Ever wonder exactly what happened between Sherlock and John in those ultra romantic hotsprings so many chapters ago? (I DO!) I'm planning to write some porny outtakes in a little sequel called Tracing One Warm Line. Stay tuned!   
> 2\. Some exciting news is coming soon about this project overall. Again: stay tuned! 
> 
> Come find me on tumblr, if you're so inclined? I'm doctornerdington over there, as well.


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